


The Sorting of Sirius Black

by TheMaraudersCompanion



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: 1970s, Canon Compliant, First War with Voldemort, Gen, Hogwarts, Howlers (Harry Potter), Marauders, Marauders Era (Harry Potter), Number Twelve Grimmauld Place, The Noble and Most Ancient House of Black, The Sorting Hat
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-24
Updated: 2019-06-09
Packaged: 2020-03-13 19:18:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 55,144
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18947203
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheMaraudersCompanion/pseuds/TheMaraudersCompanion
Summary: Mr and Mrs Black, of number twelve, Grimmauld Place, were proud to say they were perfectly pureblooded, thank you very much. They were the last people you'd expect to give birth to a blood-traitor,  an abomination, or a filthy, muggle-loving stain of dishonour on their (rather incestuous) family tree. Their House motto was Toujours Pur, and they took it very seriously...





	1. Prologue

_Most people couldn’t see the house, but it was there.  It had been there for centuries, cocooned in an impenetrable web of dark wards and enchantments.  Over the years, each generation of the Black family had woven in their own murky layers of protection, until the air about the place throbbed and hummed with magic.  Most people couldn’t see the house, but they could feel it.  It was the creeping, unshakable sense of someone, somewhere, watching.  It was a strange, lingering chill in the air; an out-of-place shadow on a sunny day. It was an impulsive backward glance, and the irresistible compulsion to walk a little faster._

_In all that time, no one in the neighborhood had ever guessed that an ancient family of wizards lived in an invisible house on Grimmauld Place.  Of course they hadn’t.  Even if someone had, no one else would have ever believed them.  Of course they wouldn’t.  The very idea of a secret world of magic, existing unseen, alongside unsuspecting everyday people, was absurd.  Preposterous.  Absolutely ridiculous.  All of those things, and yet… it was there._

_Somehow, deep down in that secret what-if place that hides in the darkness of everyone’s mind, the neighbors must have known something wasn’t quite right.  The owners of number thirteen were nearly always away, and more often than not, a weatherbeaten For Sale sign was propped against the gate at number eleven.  The occupants of number twelve had never even noticed this._

_Except for one._

_That one sometimes stood in the highest window and stared wistfully out from the shadows.  That one wondered why, that one dreamed of a day when he would walk away from this accursed house and never look back.   Eventually, he’d actually done it._

_But the house had never let him go, not really.  Even when he’d finally achieved what he’d been striving for since the age of eleven, and gotten his name ceremoniously blasted off the family tree…Even then, in that black bottomless well of madness deep within him, a place no ray of light would ever reach, it was there._

_Always, it was there; it was waiting.  To claim him, to mock him, for daring to think he could ever be free from this soul-sucking spot of darkness upon the earth.  Darkness he owned, and that had owned him, since the day he was born._

 


	2. The Vanishing Serpent

   Mr and Mrs Black, of number twelve, Grimmauld Place, were proud to say they were perfectly pureblooded, thank you very much.  They were the last people you’d expect to give birth to a blood traitor, an abomination, or a filthy, muggle-loving stain of dishonour on their (rather incestuous) family tree.  Their House motto was Toujours Pur, and they took it very seriously.

  Mrs Black had even had the words engraved on the wall of the nursery.  The motto arched proudly over a large, custom mural that featured a fierce-fanged serpent wrapped protectively around an infant. It was absolutely hideous, and looked for all the world like the snake was about to swallow the baby whole, but no one had dared mention this to the mistress of the house.  She adored the mural, and spent quite a lot of time in front of it, rocking her firstborn son and smiling smugly to herself.

  She was convinced that she (and her husband, of course, though she acknowledged his part in it only grudgingly, when she had to) had produced the perfect heir.  She could gaze at the baby for hours, admiring his tiny toes and fingers, his thick shock of jet-black hair, and his curiously alert stormy-grey eyes . Named after the brightest star in the sky, he was a beautiful child, superior in every way-- at least, until he cried.  Then, she would ring impatiently for a house elf.

  ‘Take him away,’ she’d command, abruptly thrusting him at the elf, with an expression of extreme distaste.

  ‘Yes, Mistress,’ the elf would bow to her obediently and whisk the child away to quiet him.  Mrs Black did not care how they did it; only that it was done.

   One dreary morning in late January, none of the usual methods seemed to work.  The house elf, a jittery little thing called Kritta, had tried them all.  She gave the baby a bottle and carefully burped him afterward.  She changed his nappy, rocked him, and sang him an old elf lullabye.  Still, he screamed and screamed.  His face had gone purple and his tiny fists waved indignantly.  The poor elf was at her wit’s end when Walburga Black stormed into the room, enraged.

  ‘I told you to _make it stop!’_ she seethed, with a face quite as purple as her wailing son’s.

  ‘Yes, Mistress,’ quavered the elf. ‘Kritta is trying, Mistress, but-’

  It was the wrong thing to say. Not that there was ever a _right_ thing to say, when Mrs Black was angry.  It was best to look contrite and say nothing at all (though even that didn’t usually help much).  Kritta seemed to realize her mistake, but it was far too late.

  ‘You have disobeyed an order,’ Walburga snapped, in a voice that shook with cold fury.

  She snatched her still-howling son from Kritta’s lap and pointed imperiously at the fireplace.  Shaking, the elf slid off the chair and moved obediently toward the roaring flames, hands outstretched.  Looking satisfied, Mrs Black strode out of the room before it could fill with the stench of burning elf-flesh.

  She stalked toward the nursery in a towering rage, dangling the bawling baby in front of her at arm’s length, as if he were a dead rodent or a bit of soiled laundry.  She did not bother to ring for another elf; she needed them all to stay in the kitchen.  They were busy getting the refreshments ready for the Society Tea she would be hosting that afternoon.  It was to be a momentous occasion; she would be presenting the Heir to the House of Black outside the family for the first time, and everything had to be perfect.

  ‘Why _today?’_ she murmured beseechingly to her son, whose only response was to shriek more loudly.  The din was incredible; she simply could not believe that such a tiny person could make that much noise.  She heaved him into his bassinet, and in desperation, reached for her wand.

_‘Silencio!’_

  Well.  That was _much_ better.  She could still see him screaming, of course, his small toothless mouth opening and closing like a drowning man gasping for air.  She solved that problem by leaving the room, snapping the door shut behind her. Smirking slightly at her own cleverness, she waltzed down the corridor toward her dressing room, humming to herself.

   She had been waiting for this day for seven long years, and nothing would be allowed to spoil it.  Seven years, and too many failed pregnancies to count; a hidden galaxy of faulted, fallen stars.  It had been an incredibly difficult birth, though thankfully she did not remember much about that day.  She’d slipped in and out of consciousness, and had only very hazy recollections of the blood, the panic, and the relentless crush of never-ending pain.

  _It was worth it, in the end,_ she thought smugly, as she settled herself at the dressing table.  To his chagrin, her youngest brother Cygnus’s wife had produced only girls, and her other brother, Alphard, had never married at all.  As a Black by both blood and marriage, producing a suitable heir to carry on the family legacy had fallen to her.  The child’s blood was unquestionably pure, given that her husband also happened to be her second cousin.

   Methodically, she lined up her favorite beauty potions, and leaned toward the looking glass to critically appraise her face. The frown lines at her eyes seemed to be more deeply etched than the last time she’d examined them, but that was no matter.  A few drops of _L’elixir des Jeunes_ in her tea would banish them for at least twelve hours, along with the annoying streaks of grey that kept stubbornly appearing in her expensively-coiffed black hair.  She reached reflexively for the small silver bell.

   A disheveled Kritta appeared with a dispirited pop, trailing hastily wrapped bandages from both hands.

  ‘Yes, Mistress?’ she cringed, her voice scarcely more than a hoarse squeak of terror.

  ‘Tea.’ she commanded curtly.

   The elf gave a wobbly curtsy and scurried away, plainly still petrified.  A moment later, she was back, clumsily clutching a steaming cup, which Walburga snatched from her impatiently.

  ‘W-was there anything else, Mistress?’ Kritta quivered.

   Walburga studied the bedraggled elf disdainfully over the rim of her teacup.  Something would have to be done- she couldn’t take a chance on her guests catching a glimpse of a servant in such a state.  She supposed there would be time to deal with _that_ after she was properly dressed.

  ‘Go,’ was all she said, waving Kritta from the room, and turning her attention back to the mirror.

  Merlin, she was frowning again.  She took a deep, calming breath and concentrated on smoothing her expression. T he age reversal potion was the best that galleons could buy, of course, but it could only do so much.  Meticulously, she added three precise drops to her tea so she could sip at it while she worked on her hair. Normally, she’d have the elf arrange her elaborate updo, but she did not trust Kritta to do it properly today, not with those burnt hands.  Healing them was out of the question; what was the point of a punishment if there was no suffering?

   Several hours and countless Curling Charms later, she was reasonably satisfied.  She fixed the finished masterpiece into place with several heavily charmed hairpins and regarded her reflection dispassionately.  It would do, she decided, swallowing the last sip of her long-cold tea with a grimace, and rising from the table.

   ‘ _Vivere vestimentum,’_ she murmured, pointing her wand into the open wardrobe.  The spell magically animated her large collection of dress robes, and she stood in the middle of the room thoughtfully, as they surged from their hangers to twirl and dance around her in a jerky, disembodied ballet.  She snagged the ones she wanted by a sleeve, allowing the rest to fall to the floor in crumpled heaps of jewel-encrusted lace and silk.  Let the elf sort them out later.

   She held the robes up to her chin and gazed admiringly into the mirror. T hey were a deep, shimmering emerald, which complemented her fair skin nicely.  The silvery grey, ruffled trim would almost perfectly match the baby’s eyes, and- _Oh, sweet Merlin. The baby!_ She’d forgotten all about him.

   Tossing the robes aside hastily, she hurried toward the nursery in a panic, lifting the Silencing charm as she burst through the door.  Her son was in the bassinet where she’d left him, she noted, with nearly hysterical relief.  He was no longer crying, but cooing contentedly to himself as he gazed serenely at the wall above his head.

  It took Walburga a full minute to process what was different about that wall.  The painstakingly painted mural of the serpent and the child… it was _gone._   Completely vanished. She ran a disbelieving hand over the smooth, blank surface and stared down at her son.

  She could have sworn he was smirking.


	3. This Noble and Most Ancient House

   More than eleven years had passed since that dreary winter day, and Grimmauld Place had scarcely changed at all.  The sun still set without the family noticing, because most of its light never quite seemed to reach the house. T he shadowy corridors and large, gloomy rooms looked almost exactly as they had for centuries, though the nursery had been long since abandoned, for Sirius Black was no longer a baby.

   At the moment, he was creeping about his own house like a common thief.  Silence and subtlety were not things that came naturally to him; sneaking around was a skill he’d had to learn at an early age. It was the only way he could ever find out what was happening in this family. And there was definitely something happening now.

   His mother had been behaving strangely all day.  She’d seemed preoccupied, and had not bothered to snap at him to straighten his robes, or smack him for teasing his brother at breakfast.  She hadn’t stabbed at him with her talon-like fingernails for slouching in his seat during lessons, and she’d never even mentioned that he was her biggest disappointment in life.  Not once, which was very odd indeed.

   Not that he was complaining about being left alone for a change.  It just wasn’t _usual,_ and in his experience, that meant a storm called _Mother_ was coming; a howling, blustering rage that could leave utter devastation in its wake.

   The smart thing to do would have been to stay out of the way until it all blew over, of course.  Undoubtedly, that’s what his younger brother was doing.  Regulus had made himself scarce after dinner, while Sirius had made the borderline suicidal decision to spy on his parents, because he _had to know._   To him, remaining blissfully ignorant was not an option.  He needed to stay informed, and he could never afford to let down his guard. That’s when she struck the hardest.

   Stealthily, he crept up the dimly lit staircase toward the hushed murmur of his parents’ voices.  The torches cast eerie, flickering shadows over the heads of house-elves past, which studded the walls like macabre trophies, evidence of a barbaric family tradition that went back centuries.  When an elf grew too old to be useful, he or she would be ceremoniously beheaded, and the severed head would be fixed to a wooden plaque (Sirius had always wondered what they did with the rest of the bodies).  Most of the heads were indeed ancient, except for the most recent addition; the elf once known as Kritta had apparently been retired quite young.

  The elf heads were all muttering madly to one another, as Sirius passed beneath them, but he paid no attention.  He was too intent on overhearing his parents.  A floorboard creaked underfoot, and he froze, his heart hammering, but the voices didn’t pause. T hey hadn’t heard him.  Letting out a relieved breath, he continued to inch his way toward the open door of the drawing room.  The voices became clearer as he eased his head quietly, oh-so-carefully, around the frame and peeked inside.

  Though his parents were settled in front of a crackling fire, the scene was anything but cosy.  Warmth and comfort did not seem to be concepts that the Black family embraced. The drawing room was cavernous and creaky, with dark wood panelling that seemed to absorb any bit of light that managed to reach it.  It looked just like the rest of the house, with one small difference; an obnoxiously ostentatious tapestry that dominated the west wall.  This particular monstrosity was the secret heart of the household, the Black family tree.  Its twisted roots were traced (in gaudy gold embroidery) all the way back to the Middle Ages.  Well, some of its roots. Any relation that “behaved in a manner unbefitting of this Noble and Most Ancient House” was simply… removed, with a charred black hole appearing where their name had once been.  Sirius often wondered if it hurt.

   ‘...much too liberal these days. I don’t like it,’ Mrs Black was complaining, and Sirius rolled his eyes.  He suspected that the list of things his mother did not like would be enough to fill several libraries, with extra shelves for muggles, half-breeds, blood traitors, Squibs, and most days, Sirius himself.

   ‘You know as well as I do that there are... other options,’ his mother insisted, in a voice that sounded quite ominous to Sirius.

   He heard the clink of a bottle against a glass, then his father began to speak in a calm, measured tone, the same tone one might take when trying to soothe a savage animal, or an unreasonable toddler.  Orion Black often spoke to his wife in this way.  Sometimes, it even worked . It seemed to be working now; at any rate, she was quiet.  She might even be listening. S irius listened too, but he could not pick out more than a few words.

    ‘...important... keep up appearances… visible...the heir…’

  Sirius grimaced. 'The heir,' that was him.  Of course, he ought to have known already; Regulus was much too well-behaved to inspire one of his parents’ secret discussions. Those were always about Sirius.  So what had he done now?  Try as he might, he couldn’t think of anything he might have done lately to upset his mother.  Which didn’t mean she _wasn’t_ upset.  This was the woman who had once punished him for ‘breathing loudly, like a commoner’.

   ‘Well, of _course_ not Beauxbatons- that new headmistress is obviously a half-breed.’ she sniffed haughtily, in reply to something Sirius hadn’t heard.  ‘But there _is_ Durmstrang.’

   Sirius backed out of the room and slid down a silk-panelled wall in silent shock.  _Durmstrang,_ he thought numbly.  So that’s what this is about.  He didn’t know very much about the Wizarding schools, save Hogwarts, where all of his cousins went, and where he had always assumed he too, would be going.  The only thing he’d ever heard about Durmstrang was that it was somewhere secret, and very cold. Just thinking about it made him shiver a bit.  There was probably no Forbidden Forest there; no Giant Squid.  They might not even have Quidditch!  Why would she want to send him _there?_

   His father was talking again, slightly louder this time, but still not enough to hear him clearly.

   ‘...too late for that….uphold tradition...centuries….Slytherin….’

   From what Sirius could piece together, it sounded like his father didn’t like the idea of Durmstrang any more than he did.

   Not that it matters, he thought dispiritedly.  If his mother wanted him to go to Durmstrang, that’s undoubtedly where he would go.  In this house, Walburga Black always got her way.

   The conversation droned on and on, and Sirius was drowsing against the wall when he heard his mother sigh loudly, and abruptly summon Kreacher.

 _Merlin’s toenails,_ he swore silently as he leapt to his feet.  The last thing he wanted was to be caught lurking out here by the family house elf.  Kreacher lived to serve the House of Black, but this did not seem to include Sirius.  The wretched elf liked nothing better than catching him at some mischief or another, and ratting him out to his mother. It was like having a second, bulb-eyed, bat-eared little brother.  Between Kreacher and Regulus, it was a wonder he ever got away with anything at all.

   Before Sirius could retreat more than a few steps down the corridor, the elf appeared with a deafening _CRACK,_ and seized a handful of his hair.

   ‘Ouch! Kreacher, _GET OFF.’_   Sirius whispered fiercely, futilely trying to yank his head free.

   Kreacher ignored him, and held on.

   ‘Young Master Sirius’s presence is required in the drawing room,’ the elf announced, dragging him forcefully toward the door.

   House elves were much stronger than they looked, and Sirius could only struggle uselessly as Kreacher shoved him into the room and dumped him unceremoniously at his mother’s feet.  She frowned down upon her eldest son and gestured imperiously at the elf to dismiss him.  Kreacher bowed to his mistress and popped away.

   ‘Hello, Mother,’ Sirius said conversationally, trying to smooth his elf-ruffled hair. ‘Good evening, Father.’

   His father gave a slight nod, but his mother did not answer.  She was standing, gazing absently at the tapestry, occasionally touching the shining embroidery gently, as if to draw strength from it.  Sirius found this deeply unsettling, though he couldn’t say why. It just _was._   With a slight, inward cringe, he turned his back on the tapestry, and waited.

   ‘Sit.’ She snapped at him finally, as if she were speaking to a dog, jerking her head toward a familiar, straight-backed chair.

   Sirius shuddered involuntarily at the sight of it.  It looked like an ordinary, slightly uncomfortable chair, but it was much more than that.  It was the Punishment Chair, and at his mother’s direction, it could sprout claw-handed restraints that held him in place while she screamed at him.  He suspected that those hands could probably do other, worse things, and he sincerely hoped that he would never find out what those things might be.

   ‘I am sitting,’ he pointed out, eyeing the chair with suspicion.  He was still sprawled on the carpet where Kreacher had dropped him.

   ‘In. The. Chair.’  She hissed, fingers hovering threateningly over the wand in her pocket.

   Instinctively, he flinched.  His mother was frighteningly adept at Stinging hexes, which were exactly what they sounded like.  They caused no permanent damage, but were still extremely painful.  He scrambled hastily to his feet and perched gingerly on the edge of the chair, holding his breath.

   Nothing happened.

   Sirius relaxed slightly and arranged his face into what he hoped was an attentive and obedient expression (though, as his mother loved to point out, he was rubbish at both paying attention and following orders, so he was not quite sure how this was supposed to look).  Still, his mother did not speak.  His father cleared his throat, and both Sirius and Mrs Black jumped.  They had forgotten he was even in the room.

    'Perhaps,’ he said gently to his wife, ‘We ought to give him the letter, dear.’

    Giving her husband a dark look, she flicked her wand and sent a rather crumpled sheet of parchment zooming straight toward her son’s face.  Reflexively, he plucked it from the air and smoothed it out on his lap.

 _Dear Mr Black,_ he read.  _We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted to…_

   ‘Hogwarts!’ he yelped joyfully, forgetting himself for a moment.  ‘When do I get my wand?  Can I get an owl?  Can we go…’  He trailed off beneath his mother’s withering gaze. Too late, he remembered that she staunchly disapproved of both shouting and happiness.  At least, it seemed that way to him.

   ‘You are to be allowed to go,’ she said stiffly, as if it pained her to say the words.  ‘But there shall be… conditions.’  She pursed her thin lips and glanced toward her husband.  ‘Beginning tonight,’ she continued,  ‘Your father will be instructing you on the proper comportment and conduct befitting the Heir to the House of Black.  You will obey his every command without question; there will be none of your mischief or misbehaviour.  I shall not allow you to shame this family while you are at school.  Do I make myself clear?’

   ‘Yes, Mother.’ Sirius nodded solemnly.  At that moment, he would have cheerfully agreed to just about anything, if it meant he would be going to Hogwarts.  She gazed at him through narrowed eyes for what seemed like a very long time.  At last she turned her glare toward her husband.

   ‘I suppose I will leave you to it then,’ she snapped, and swept from the room in a haughty swirl of emerald robes.

 

 

   ‘Abbott,’ Sirius recited hoarsely, hours later. ‘Avery.  Black.  Bulstrode.  Burke.  Carrow.  Crouch.  Fawley.  Flint.  Gaunt. L estr- no, wait!’ he corrected hastily.  _‘Greengrass_ , Lestrange.  Longbottom.  Macmillan…  um, Malfoy…  Nott.  Ollivander.  Parkinson.  Prewett.  Rosier.  Rowle.  Selwyn.  Shacklebolt.  Uhhh… Shafiq… SlughornTraversYaxley!’ he finished in a rush and looked expectantly up at his father.

   Mr Black lifted his eyes briefly from his tumbler of firewhiskey and nodded his approval. ‘ Now, remind me of the significance of these names?’

   ‘They are the names of the Sacred Twenty-Eight,’ Sirius chanted dutifully.  ‘The only true pure-blood families and the only appropriate associates for the heir to the House of Black.’

   ‘Quite right,’ his father agreed, sounding satisfied at last.  ‘I suppose that will do, for tonight. You may go,’ he added, waving a hand to dismiss him.

   Sirius sagged in relief.  They’d been at this for ages; his throat was aching and his eyeballs burned like they’d been scorched by fiendfyre.  His father frowned at him but otherwise made no comment.

   ‘Thank you, Father,’ he said quickly.  ‘Good night, sir.’ and he darted from the room and toward the stairs before the man could change his mind.

  The gilt-framed portraits of his ancestors that lined the grand staircase grumbled and groused disapprovingly as he bounded toward his room at the top of the house.

   ‘No respect,’ a bloated old wizard with a moth-eaten moustache moaned.  ‘None at all. Why, in my day…’

 _‘Your_ day was three hundred years ago, you fat old git,’ Sirius shot back as he thundered past that particular portrait.

   ‘Unforgivable insolence!’ the wizard sputtered.  ‘Simply inconceivable arrogance! I tell you, I…’  his rant faded into the cacophony of the others’ voices, all echoing similar sentiments as Sirius raced by.  This happened every time he used the stairs, and always served to feed the suspicion that his ancestral home disliked him at least as much as he disliked it.

  At last, he reached the relative sanctuary of his bedroom.  While it was not quite as grim as the drawing room, the decor was still somewhat depressing.  The furniture was old and heavy and dark, and everything- everything- was done up in Slytherin silver and green.  He flopped bonelessly into the middle of the massive, intricately carved bed and allowed himself to grin.

 _Hogwarts!_   He could hardly wait.  For years he had listened, breathless with envy, to his cousins’ tales of all the fantastic, truly magical things that happened at school.  They talked about the moving staircases and enchanted ceilings, and the suits of armour that could talk (he already had plans to teach them a few things).  They told stories about the ghosts (and often compared him to a particularly annoying poltergeist who was called Peeves), and they said that the Slytherin common room was deep beneath the lake, so that you might see a Selkie or a grindylow, or even the Giant Squid, floating past the windows.

   Too wound up to be still, he sprang from the bed and moved to his own (regrettably, squidless) window.  Lack of a magical underwater view aside, this particular window was easily his favorite thing about the room.  It was large, let in a bit of sunlight, and best of all, it overlooked the street, so that he could watch the neighbors as they went about their business.  _Muggle business._ For as loudly and as often as his family claimed to abhor muggles, their house was completely surrounded by them.

   The muggles, obviously, had no idea they were being spied upon by Sirius.  He couldn’t help it; they were just so _interesting._   There were the children from number fourteen, always shouting and running and laughing, and the people rolling by in their strange shiny metal carriages, and the man who’d just moved into number eleven who had a _dog._   A big, black, friendly-looking, floppy eared dog, that he walked right past number twelve every evening, without fail.

   At the moment, however, Grimmauld Place was dark and deserted.  No dogs, no muggles, were stirring in the shadows below.  Sirius stood staring out into the empty night without really seeing it, lost in a daydream of castles and quidditch, forbidden forests and freedom…

   ‘Sirius?’ A small voice spoke behind him.

   ‘GAH!’ Sirius shrieked and whirled around, only to find himself facing his brother.

   ‘Merlin’s pants, Reg!’ he groaned, mentally peeling his pride from the ceiling.  ‘What did I tell you about sneaking up on me like that?’

   ‘That _there is no such thing as a_ good _surprise in this house,’_ Regulus quoted soberly.  ‘But you shouldn’t swear so much. Mother says…’

   ‘Bollocks to what Mother says,’ Sirius interrupted (after a quick glance over his shoulder to make sure she was not standing there).

   ‘What do you want, Regulus?’ he sighed.

   ‘Nothing,’ Regulus looked hurt.

   ‘So you just decided to terrify me for no reason?’ Sirius demanded.

   ‘No... I just… what happened after dinner? You were locked up in the drawing room with Father for ages. Mother wouldn’t say… are you in trouble again?’

   Sirius grinned, and all traces of annoyance with his brother evaporated.  ‘I’m always in trouble,’ he shrugged carelessly. ‘But this time it was different.  I got my Hogwarts letter!’ he announced happily.

   ‘Oh.’ said Regulus in a very small voice, his face falling.

   Sirius frowned. Whatever reaction he may have expected, it surely was not this. True, Regulus was not a jumping-up-and-cheering sort of boy, but still. His irritation flared again.  ‘Would it _kill_ you to be happy for me?’  He practically snarled at his somber-faced sibling.  ‘I am finally getting out here, Reg!  You all should throw a bloody party!’ he ranted. ‘You _know_ Mother will be overjoyed to not have to look at me every day!  Kreacher too!  Even the portraits will be happy when I’ve gone!’

   ‘I won’t,’ Regulus said softly.

   ‘You-’ he began furiously, and then stopped short.  ‘Oh.’  Of course.  Sirius could only imagine what his reaction would be if he’d just been told he would be stuck inside this miserable house for another year, with only his parents and a cantankerous house-elf for company.  His anger dissolved instantly.

   ‘I’ll miss you,’ Regulus continued, looking dangerously close to tears.

   Sirius squashed the reflex to remind him that _Blacks don’t cry._   It was something their mother would say; something she did say, any time he was foolish enough to let her see that he was hurt or upset.  Instead, he slung a comforting arm around his brother’s shoulders (though a bit stiffly, because Blacks also did not hug).

   ‘Aw, come on, Reg,’ he said consolingly.  ‘It’ll be okay, you’ll see.  I’ll write you every week and tell you everything, I swear.  I’ll send you pictures of the giant squid!  And you’ll be there next year, anyway, and it will be brilliant!  And Mother will probably be much nicer, without me around to set her off all the time,’ he added.

   Regulus sniffled, and managed a small, smug smile.  'She’s already nice to _me,’_ he pointed out, in the infuriating sing-song tone that seems to be an insufferable inborn trait of all little brothers, everywhere.

   Sirius rolled his eyes.

   ‘Yeah, yeah,” he grumbled, though he wasn’t really angry.  ‘You are the golden child. Believe me. I know.’

 

   The summer dragged on.  Sirius was convinced that he had lived several lifetimes since he had gotten his letter; in reality it had been less than four days.  His mother had gone mad (well, madder than she already was, if such a thing could be possible) with her _prepare-the-heir f_ renzy.  In addition to his regular daily lessons of Latin, French, Astronomy and Ancient Runes, he now had the lessons with his father, every evening after dinner until the wee hours.  He had also been forced to endure endless fittings with a rather sadistic seamstress, who seemed to delight in pricking him with her pins in some very sensitive areas.  There was no sense in complaining, he knew.  His mother insisted that his robes be custom made, sniffing that Madame Malkin’s wares were frightfully common, and Twilfitt and Tattings did not sell childrens’ sizes.

   School books and supplies could be ordered by owl, but Mr Ollivander insisted that the wand chose the wizard, in person, and he stubbornly refused to part with one of his creations in any other manner.  Ollivander was the best, and a Black must always have the best.  There was no way around it. Sirius would have to be taken to Diagon Alley.  Mrs Black did not relate any of this to Sirius, but he had been eavesdropping again, so he was not surprised when, one day, after breakfast, she ordered him upstairs to dress for going out.

   ‘Wear the green,’ she commanded.  ‘Kreacher’s laid it out for you, but you’ll have to manage it yourself.  He’s helping your brother.  And wash that dirt off your face- I won’t have you wandering about looking like some filthy commoner,’ she added, and Sirius wondered how on earth he could have gotten dirty already.  He’d been awake for barely an hour.

   He was careful to wait until his back was turned to grimace.  _The green_ she was referring to was the fussiest, heaviest set of robes he owned.  Getting into them on his own, without magic, was going to be quite a chore.  Not to mention how ridiculously overdressed he would be, for a trip to buy school supplies.  Still, he did not think of complaining. His mother rarely allowed him to leave Grimmauld Place these days; he’d cheerfully dress up as Helga bloody Hufflepuff, if it meant getting out of this house.

   Nearly an hour, and one thoroughly destroyed bedroom later, Sirius still stood in his pants, fighting back tears of frustration.  Blacks don’t cry, he reminded himself mockingly, but he was running out of other, more sensible options.

   The robes lay twitching obstinately on the floor.  He calculated that he would need about four extra hands to subdue the blasted things enough to get them over his head.  He was convinced that his mother had charmed them to make them impossible to put on alone, forcing him to beg her for help.  _Why_ she would do such a thing, he didn’t know. She did seem to enjoy humiliating him; he supposed she had just seen an opportunity that was too good to let go.

    _I won’t let her win,_ he thought viciously.  _That miserable, rotten old-_

‘SIRIUS!’ Regulus burst into the room.  ‘Why aren’t you dressed?  Mother’s going spare, she says we’ve got to leave in ten minutes!’  He was, of course, impeccably robed, with his shoes shined and his hair neatly combed.

  In response, Sirius kicked at the robes still wriggling on the floor.  A sleeve rose, and began winding itself around his legs, a serpent slithering in for the kill.  His brother’s eyes widened as the robes crept swiftly upward, and Sirius struggled to free himself.  Instantly, they tightened like a vise around his thighs, and he swore.

  After a brief hesitation,  Regulus darted forward, and attempted to help pry them off, to no avail.

   Sirius willed himself to remain absolutely still as the cursed cloth surged over his torso, squeezing even harder, and forcing air from his lungs.  The robes were behaving almost like a Lethifold, and he thought he remembered, from a long-ago lesson, that freezing in place would at least encourage a Lethifold to devour you more slowly.  Admittedly, it was not a great plan, but it was the only one he had.

   It didn’t seem to be working. H is arms were now completely trapped, and the murderous material was crawling over his shoulders.

   ‘I’m going to get Mother!’ Regulus cried, sounding panicky.

   ‘Don’t!’ Sirius wheezed, fighting to draw breath.  ‘Please!  She won’t help, she did this! S he- _mmmmblff!’_ he spluttered, as the savage green silk snaked its way over his mouth.

   ‘Mother wouldn’t-’  Regulus started to protest, but Sirius could tell by the uncertain look on his face that he was wondering if, perhaps, Mother _would._

   Sirius felt himself falling backward, into the abyss, as the robes closed over his head.  Faintly, through the choking masses of material, he heard Regulus bellowing for Kreacher, but this did not give him much hope at all.  Not only did Kreacher detest him, but it was very likely that he had been ordered by Mrs. Black not to help Sirius, and no house-elf would ever think of disobeying a direct order from the Mistress of the family.

   He was going to be suffocated to death by dress robes. How utterly humiliating.

 _Goodbye, cruel world,_ he thought, dramatically (because if ever there was a time for drama, this was certainly it).  _Goodbye, Regulus.  Goodbye, Hogwarts. Goodbye, friendly black_ _dog from number eleven that I’ll never get to pet now.  Goodbye, Kreacher..._ hang on.

   ‘Kreacher?’ Sirius croaked.

   He could talk again!  And he could see, he could hear!  He’d been so involved in his death throes that he hadn’t noticed the imitation Lethifold loosening its lethal grip.

   Kreacher was bending over him, muttering something about how he was a useless brat who couldn’t even get himself dressed properly, and oh, what did poor Mistress ever do to deserve a worthless child like this, et cetera, et cetera.

   ‘Shut it, Kreacher,’ Sirius snapped, as he heaved himself off the floor and began to dust off his robes.

   He froze in astonishment when he realized that he was now fully dressed in the Murder Robes, and that they were behaving like perfectly normal robes ought to.  They _were_ a bit tight in the collar, but it was a big improvement over being actively strangled.

  ‘How,’ he said slowly, ‘in the name of Merlin’s great bloody bollocks…?’

   Kreacher fixed him with a malevolent glare, and carried right on mumbling about ungrateful little beasts as he marched out of the room.

   Sirius could not believe that Kreacher had (probably) defied orders to save him. He said as much to Regulus, who shrugged.

   ‘I told him he wasn’t helping _you,_ he was helping me.’

   Sirius snorted. Of course. Anything for dear, perfect little Regulus.

   ‘Also, I _might_ have told him that rescuing the heir to the House would be a good way to end up in the place of honour on the Wall,’ he confessed in a rush, and both brothers shuddered a little.  The Wall of Loyalty was what the house-elves called the display of severed elf heads in the downstairs corridor.  Kreacher’s fondest ambition was to someday have his own head stuck upon that wall amid those of his ancestors, mad old thing that he was.

   ‘You won’t tell Mother, will you?’ Regulus added anxiously.  With great effort, Sirius restrained himself from reminding his brother that he was not the one who was always running to Mother over every little thing, only because Regulus had just saved him from an unthinkably embarrassing death.

   ‘Course I won’t,’ he said.  ‘I vow to take the secret to my grave.  Wild hippogriffs couldn’t drag it out of me.  I’d rot in Azkaban before I would betray you! I’d - hey!’ Sirius ducked as Regulus tossed a pair of shoes at him.

   ‘Come on,’ he urged, starting toward the door.  ‘Before Mother loses her mind,’

   'Bit late for that,' muttered Sirius, under his breath, but Regulus did not hear; he had already gone out.

  ‘Hey! Reg!’ Sirius shouted after him, hopping on one foot, then the other, as he pulled on his shoes.

   Regulus poked his head back around the doorframe.  ‘What?’ he said, rather impatiently.

   Sirius had intended to say thank you, as sincerely as he knew how, for saving him.  What came out instead was, ‘Race you down the stairs!’

   Regulus grinned and took off.  Sirius followed, a bit more slowly. Just this once, he had decided to let his brother win.

  They landed in a breathless heap at the foot of the stairs.  Mrs. Black was waiting there, arms crossed and mouth pinched.  Her narrowed eyes swept piercingly over the fully dressed Sirius, who lifted his chin and gazed steadily back at her.

   ‘I told you that you weren’t to ask the elf for help,’ she snapped at him.

   ‘I didn’t ask him,’ Sirius replied, truthfully enough.

   ‘He didn’t, Mother,’ Regulus piped up.  ‘Kreacher was helping _me,_ this whole time.’

   Mrs Black shifted her penetrating stare swiftly onto her youngest son, and studied him intensely.  After a long moment, she nodded, appearing to be satisfied.  Sirius fought to keep his face from showing his amazement, and resisted the urge to hug his brother.  He had never heard Regulus lie to their mother. Well, it wasn’t lying, exactly. More like… presenting a carefully controlled version of the truth.  Even better.  It was starting to look like there was hope for the kid, after all.

   ‘I see you didn’t bother to wash your face like I asked you to,’ his mother berated him, and drew her wand.  Sirius cringed; in all the excitement of his near death experience, he had quite forgotten about the smudge on his cheek.  He still wasn’t sure how it had gotten there.  Like most boys his age, he just seemed to be a magnet for dirt.

   ‘Hold still!’ she admonished, and Sirius braced himself, but it wasn’t a Stinging hex she cast.  It was only a gentle cleansing charm. He blinked in surprise. He wondered what could have possibly put her in such a good mood, as he was impatiently herded toward the fireplace.

   ‘The Black Estate.’ His mother commanded, shoving the emerald-studded urn of floo powder at him, and Sirius’s stomach sank into his shoes. Why were they headed _there?_ He knew better than to ask about Diagon Alley; she would know he’d been spying, and he’d never overhear another useful thing in his lifetime.  If he even managed to survive the punishment.

   Obediently, he grabbed a handful of the powder and thrust it into the flames.


	4. A Marauder's Companion

   The Black Estate was home to Sirius’s Aunt Druella and Uncle Cygnus, and his cousins Andromeda and Narcissa.  Their house was slightly less imposing and macabre than number twelve, Grimmauld Place (at least, there were no mummified elf bits stuck to the walls.)  Still, Sirius didn’t like it there any more than he liked his own home.  The Grand Ballroom was the scene of the kind of _Society_ _Events_ that his status as an heir required him to attend, and which bored him to tears.

   The most recent of these extremely tiresome affairs had been his cousin Bellatrix’s wedding, this past summer.  He had hated every second of the ceremony, and the reception, but at the moment he was extremely grateful that the wedding had happened, because that meant his eldest cousin no longer lived here.  He hoped she wouldn’t decide to stop by.

   Bellatrix was terrifying.  In her school days, she had not had any reservations about testing out painful or embarrassing hexes and jinxes on her younger, wandless, and defenseless cousins.  She had once hit Sirius with a Jelly-Legs that had caused him to topple headfirst down three flights of stairs.  When he’d finally been let out of Saint Mungo’s, his mother had punished _him_ for ‘horseplay’ in the house, since ‘dear Bella’ had claimed that was how it had happened.  

  Sirius doubted she had changed much since graduating Hogwarts.  She and her creepy husband had probably spent their honeymoon torturing puppies or something.  He sincerely hoped they would never have any children.

   He liked his other cousins a bit better.  Narcissa _was_ sort of spoiled and stuck-up, but she was the baby of the family, so he supposed she couldn’t help it.  To her credit, she’d never cursed him, or Regulus.  For the most part, she ignored him, and Sirius returned the favor.  It was Andromeda, the middle cousin, who was his favorite.  She always defended Sirius against her oldest sister whenever she caught her tormenting him.

   It was not Andy’s fault that Bellatrix so rarely got caught.

   Sirius shifted restlessly on the uncomfortable ottoman in the front parlor.  The Murder Robes (as he would refer to them now, and ever after), compelled him to sit extremely stiffly.  His spine ached, and his extremities were starting to feel numb as he sat dutifully being seen, not heard, and listening as his mother complained incessantly to Aunt Druella.  She was tearing through her usual catalogue of grievances as poor Auntie Dru nodded politely along with each tirade, murmuring sympathetic sounds of agreement in all the right places, while keeping the teacups full and fresh.  At least now Sirius could understand his mother’s relative good cheer earlier; she’d been anticipating a receptive audience.  Right now she seemed as close to content as she could ever be.

   Which meant that they might never leave. 

   Sirius sank deep into a stuporous state of ennui.  His brain felt like one of those you might find floating pickled in a jar, in the dodgy section of the apothecary.  He attempted to catch his brother’s eye, but Regulus was gazing upward.  He appeared to be counting the decorative tiles on the ceiling.  Sirius had done the same thing, thirty minutes ago. There were exactly four hundred and seventeen.  He’d also counted the ornaments.  There were sixty three, each one uglier than the last. His aunt seemed to favor big-eyed statuettes of kneazles and unicorns, which his mother said were vulgar (only behind his aunt’s back, naturally).  Though Sirius was loath to agree with his mother on anything, he had to admit that in this case, she had a point.

   Sirius was busy calling on the gods and goddesses to cause a natural catastrophe of some sort, and so end his suffering, when Bellatrix burst into the room.

 _That is_ really _not what I meant_ , he thought in dismay.  He’d been thinking more along the lines of a hurricane, or a typhoon. Something less destructive.

   ‘Sorry I’m late, Mother,’ she said blithely, not sounding sorry at all.  ‘I had to attend to some _very interesting business._ ’ she added, which sent a bit of a chill through Sirius. He was sure that anything that Bellatrix found ‘interesting’ was bound to be ghastly.

    ‘Auntie Walburga,’ Bellatrix trilled insincerely, leaning in for an air kiss.  ‘How wonderful to see you!’

    ‘And you, Bella, dear,’ Walburga  replied.  'You’re looking absolutely lovely, darling.”

   Inwardly, Sirius gagged.  In her tight black hooded robes, he thought Bellatrix looked about as lovely and as darling as a rabid dementor.

    ‘Tea, Bella?’ inquired Aunt Druella, motioning to the house elf who had silently materialized, and was already holding the teapot poised over an empty cup.

    Bellatrix declined.  ‘I’m afraid we’ve got to dash, Mother. It really is quite late, and we’ve got a lot of stops to make, right, boys?’ she finished, turning to eye Sirius threateningly, and speaking in a false, syrupy tone that didn’t fool him one bit.

   Sirius caught his brother’s startled look, and a wave of dread washed over him as he realized what was happening.  Somehow, Bellatrix had been recruited to accompany them to Diagon Alley.

  He should have let the blasted robes kill him.

 

  

                                                         

    After a flurry of goodbyes (and dire threats from his mother about the consequences of any misbehaviour, made mostly with her eyes),  they left the Ladies Black to their tea. Sirius could hear his mother happily resuming her rant about how disgraceful it was to allow half-bloods in the Ministry, or whatever, as Bellatrix marched them toward the floo.

    Sirius nudged Regulus to go through first. N o way was he going to leave his little brother alone with _her,_ not even for a minute.  He adamantly avoided looking at his cousin as he waited for the flames to clear. As he stepped into them himself, Bellatrix gave him an impatient shove, but he’d been expecting it.  He barely stumbled as he hit the hearth in the Leaky Cauldron.

    A moment later, Bellatrix was upon him.

    ‘Listen up. Here’s what’s going to happen,’ she snarled, seizing him by the collar.  She was inches from his nose, and her hot angry breath blasted him in the face.  Whatever she’d been drinking did _not_ smell like butterbeer.

 ‘I’ve got better things to do than babysit a couple of snot-nosed fucking brats,’ she hissed.

  ‘Don’t we all,’  said Sirius.  Why, he had no idea. He wasn’t even sure what he meant by it.

   ‘Shut up,’ Bellatrix growled, tightening her grip on his collar so that, for the second time that day, Sirius was in danger of being choked by his own clothing.  He supposed he ought to start keeping count.

   ‘Take this,’ she ordered, fishing a small key from the inky depths of her robes, with the hand that wasn’t currently strangling him.  ‘You know what to do?’

   Sirius palmed the key and attempted to nod.  He didn’t have a clue what she was talking about, but he wasn’t about to tell her that.  He’d figure it out when he could breathe again.

   ‘Now,’ she spat.  ‘You will visit your vault and draw _exactly_ enough gold to pay for your supplies.  You will get _every single thing_ on the list. No exceptions, no substitutions, except for robes.  You can skip Madame Malkin’s.  You will meet me at _exactly_ this spot at _exactly_ half past seven, and I will spend _every minute_ of that time imagining _exactly_ what I will do to you if you fail to do _exactly_ as I say.'

   Every time she said the word _exactly,_ she shook him by the neck for emphasis.  He felt like his spine was about to snap.  From the corner of one watering eye, he saw Regulus turning his head frantically this way and that, as if looking for help, but the pub was nearly empty, and none of the few patrons seemed to notice the three of them there in the shadowy corridor.

  Bellatrix gave him one good final shake before shoving him away from her.

 ‘You will not breathe a _word_ of this conversation to _anybody_. Do you understand?’ she demanded, threateningly.

  “ I ...understand,” he gasped, staggering backward, “... _exactly.”_

  Bellatrix glared at him, and with a dark swish of her robes, stalked off toward Knockturn Alley.

 

 

    ‘What do we do now?’ Regulus asked, as they made their way, at last, into Diagon Alley.  He sounded quite overwhelmed, and Sirius didn’t blame him.

   After the tedium of teatime in their aunt’s stuffy parlor, and the dusty dimness of the Leaky Cauldron, the brilliant explosion of sights and sounds surrounding them almost felt like an assault.  It looked as if all of Wizarding Britain was out doing their back-to-Hogwarts shopping that day, all of them laughing and talking, and hurrying in and out of the shops. Sirius noticed that while some of the older witches and wizards wore robes, nearly all of the younger people were dressed in muggle clothing.  He glanced down at the Murder Robes and sighed.

   Regulus repeated his question, and Sirius gazed down the alley, considering.  ‘Well, we’re going to have to get some gold, if we’re going to buy anything,’ he pointed out.  ‘So Gringotts, I suppose.’

   ‘Okay,’ Regulus sighed, sounding less than enthusiastic.

   ‘I know, it’ll be boring,’ Sirius agreed.  ‘But it shouldn’t take that long.  Afterwards we can go to Quality Quidditch and look at brooms, if you want. Or - I know! We can see if the Magical Menagerie has Crup puppies!’

   Looking slightly cheered, Regulus followed close behind as he started off down the twisting cobbled lane, dodging and weaving in and out of the crowds.  Their argument about whether or not baby Crups ought to be called ‘cruppies’ (Sirius: Yes, Regulus: No.) lasted until they reached the imposing white marble edifice of Gringotts.  As they mounted the steps, Regulus hung back.

   ‘I don’t like _them_ ,’ he whispered, with a swift, fearful glance toward the uniformed guards at the doors.

    ‘Who, the goblins?’ Sirius asked, a bit too loudly.  The goblins in question narrowed their eyes.  Sirius flashed them a cheery grin, which neither of them returned.  They remained stone-faced as Sirius practically dragged his brother past them and into the bank.

  ‘They do seem rather unfriendly,’ Sirius commented agreeably, as he led the way to the high counter.  

  ‘I’d like some gold, please!’ he announced to the first goblin he saw.  The goblin blinked, then stared disdainfully down his rather long nose at Sirius. 

    ‘Wouldn’t we all,’ he remarked dryly. ‘Vault number?’

    ‘Uhhhh…’

    ‘What does it say on your key?’ the goblin sighed impatiently.  ‘You do _have_ your key with you?’

   ‘Oh!’   Sirius remembered the small golden key that he still (luckily) had clutched in his fist. He had completely forgotten about it. _O f course,_ he realized, feeling stupid. _It’s a vault key._ He held it up and squinted at the tiny engraved numerals upon it .  ‘Seven hundred and eleven!’ he read, triumphantly.

   The goblin’s sardonic air evaporated at once.  He leapt down from his high stool and hurried around the counter to them.  ‘Of course, Master Black. I shall arrange for you to be accompanied to your vault immediately. Please, step this way,’ he urged, in the tone of silky deference that shopkeepers always seemed to use when speaking with his mother.

   A bit disconcerted at the abrupt change in attitude, Sirius followed the goblin toward a row of  polished doors leading out of the massive marble lobby (surreptitiously dragging the reluctant Regulus along by his sleeve). The goblin rang a tiny silver bell he seemed to have produced from thin air, and another goblin materialized instantly.

    ‘Gornuk,’ the first goblin greeted the second. ‘Please accompany young Master Black to vault seven hundred and eleven.’

    Gornuk’s eyebrows quirked, almost imperceptibly,  before his face settled back into a smooth mask of indifference.

    ‘Yes, of course,’ he said blandly. ‘Right away.’

    He opened the door that was directly behind them, and ushered them into a gloomy stone passageway that was (barely) lit by guttering torches.  Sirius gazed around with interest.  He had never seen this part of Gringotts before. T he rough hewn path sloped sharply downward into a darkened tunnel.  Along the side ran what looked like the tracks for a very small train.  Gornuk whistled sharply, as if calling for a dog, and Regulus jumped at the sudden sound, losing his balance.  Sirius seized the back of his robes to keep him from tumbling in front of the rickety wooden cart that had suddenly appeared, trundling obediently along the tracks.  The cart lurched to a shaky stop in front of them.

   ‘After you,’ said Gornuk, indicating the seats inside with a sweeping gesture.

   Regulus resisted.

   ‘Fine,’ Sirius huffed, with a touch of impatience.  He was already getting tired of pushing and prodding and pulling his brother around.  ‘You can stay here then.’

   Regulus surveyed the ominously flickering shadows with wide eyes, then reluctantly clambered into the cart, settling next to Sirius. _Right_ next to Sirius; so close he was practically in his lap.  Gornuk followed, and the moment he stepped inside, the cart took off at a breakneck speed.  They careened wildly into the tunnel, and Sirius laughed out loud as they whipped around a hairpin curve.

    ‘Hold on!’ he shouted gleefully to Regulus, though he needn’t have bothered.  Regulus had everything he could reach locked in a death grip.  One of those things happened to be Sirius’s left arm; he hoped it only _felt_ like it was broken.

   The tunnel opened up, and they rocketed into a massive underground cavern.  The ground dropped sharply away from the tracks, into a craggy abyss that seemed bottomless. There were no torches here, but the cavern was faintly lit with a greenish subterranean glow.  Here and there, waterfalls cascaded down the walls, which seemed miles high. Sirius craned his neck, looking around intently for signs of dragons, or possibly a manticore,  or a basilisk.  He’d heard rumors that deadly creatures guarded some of the vaults, though he’d never really believed it until now.  Without warning, they plunged into another tunnel, racing even deeper underground.  Sirius’s eyes were watering from the cold, rushing wind, but it was the only way he could tell that they were open.  This tunnel was pitch black. A s they rattled blindly through the twisting passages, Sirius reflected that he’d been completely wrong about the bank being _boring_.  He grinned into the impenetrable darkness.

  The Black vaults themselves were not nearly as interesting as the ride down to them.  Once inside, Sirius realized he had no idea how much all of his supplies would cost.  He stuffed his pockets with as much gold as he could carry; he could only hope it would be enough.  On the way back, Sirius did see a faint orange glow in the distance, that _could_ have been the breath of an angry dragon, but Gornuk only grunted indifferently when he asked about it.

 

   ‘I’m _starving!’_ Sirius announced, as they stood blinking in the dazzling sunlight of Diagon Alley once more.  Breakfast had been ages ago, and though the Ladies Black had gorged themselves on cake and sandwiches at tea, neither one of them had deigned to offer so much as a crumb to either boy.  Regulus, who had been looking rather pale and shaky since they’d gotten out of the Gringotts cart, did not comment.  Sirius was too intoxicated by his first small taste of freedom, and the weight of the galleons that now stuffed his pockets, to notice this. T hey could eat _anything they wanted._    Happily, Sirius began to list the possibilities, though his list was little more than a recitation of the Sugarplum Sweet Shop’s entire inventory.

    ‘Jelly Slugs, Ice Mice,’ he rambled obliviously.  ‘Ummm, Acid Pops...I don’t think so. Cockroach Clusters…’

     At that, Regulus turned a positively Slytherin shade of green and threw up spectacularly, splattering the cobblestones impressively in every direction 

    ‘Ewwwww!’ a passing little girl shrieked.  ‘Look, Mummy! Yucky!’

    ‘For Merlin’s sake, don’t _step in it,_ Becky!’ the mother warned, shooting them a disgusted look as she dragged her daughter away from the steaming puddle.

    The crowd of shoppers gave them a wide berth as Sirius steered his brother off the main path and into a narrow alleyway.

    ‘Take deep breaths,’ he instructed, propping Regulus against a wall.  Regulus obeyed, and Sirius watched him with concern until the color began to flood back into his face. ‘Better?’

    Regulus nodded weakly, and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.  ‘I’m okay,’ he said, in a small but steady voice.

    ‘Do you think you can, er... drink some water or something?’  Sirius asked, careful not to mention any food items, in case he triggered another eruption. 

    Regulus smiled faintly and nodded.  ‘I think I’m actually sort of hungry now, too.’ he admitted, sounding sheepish.

    ‘Well, after spewing up every thing you’ve eaten for the past year, that _does_ make sense,’ Sirius snorted.  ‘Do you know what you want to eat?’

    ‘Anything but a Cockroach Cluster,’ he begged, and they set off in search of lunch.

    Sirius wanted to go to a run-down, grimy looking cafeteria that was entirely too close to Knockturn Alley.  He was feeling more self-conscious in the Murder Robes, now that the excitement of being turned loose for the afternoon had worn off a bit, and he reasoned that he was far less likely to encounter any of his future classmates in such a dodgy place.  Regulus, who seemed blissfully unaware of how stupid they both looked, held out for Florean Fortescue’s.  Eventually, Sirius relented, because... well, ice cream.

    _It’s worth it,_ he decided, digging into a triple chocolate sundae with nuts and extra whipped cream, while steadfastly ignoring the snickering and pointing of several boys around his age at a nearby table.  It was easily the best ice cream he had ever tasted, though he hadn’t actually tasted it all that often.  They never had it at home, and on the rare occasions that he had been allowed to accompany his parents anywhere, they treated him more like an accessory than an actual, human child.  No one ever decides to offer their scarf or their handbag a snack.  Well… perhaps _some_ do, but those people are probably confined to the secure ward at Saint Mungo’s.

  His Uncle Alphard had bought him an ice cream before, Sirius recalled.  He’d also taken him to a few Quidditch matches, and most importantly, taught him how to swear (though this was probably more by accident than by design).  But his uncle hadn’t been around lately, not since the Underground Incident.  They’d gone to a match, which had been brilliant, and _then_ they’d come back to Grimmauld Place on a crowded, odd-looking train that ran through tunnels underneath the city.  A muggle train.  Sirius had been fascinated by it, and had made the grave mistake of talking about it in front of his mother.

   She was horrified, wringing her hands, gnashing her teeth, and fretting about whether he needed to be checked over by a healer, to be absolutely certain that he had not contracted some kind of disease from ‘those abominations’ on the train. In an attempt to reassure her, Sirius insisted that they had not seen any abominations, nor atrocities, or even a single, savage beast.  They had all been just regular people, he explained, except for their funny-looking clothes.  His mother had responded by locking him in his bedroom for a week, and he hadn’t seen his favourite uncle since.

    ‘Sirius?’ his brother’s voice broke into his thoughts.  ‘Are you all right?’

    Sirius blinked down at his sundae. He was surprised to see that he’d eaten every bite.  ‘Er,  I’m fine. I was just… thinking, that’s all,’ he assured Regulus, distractedly.

   ‘What about?’ Regulus wondered.

   ‘Uncle Alphard,’  Sirius told him, then instantly wished he hadn’t.

   ‘Oh. Mother says that Alphard’s not quite right in the head,’ Regulus offered.

    Sirius scowled.  ‘She would know all about _that,_ wouldn’t she?’ he muttered, under his breath.

    ‘Sorry, what?’ asked Regulus.

   ‘Nothing,’ Sirius sighed, standing up.  He didn’t want to have this conversation right now.  Or ever.  ‘Let’s go, okay? There’s a load of things on the book list, and we -’  he stopped dead as a wave of awful realization crashed over him.  _The list._

  ‘Merlin’s gaping arsehole!’ he swore.  ‘I haven’t got the list, Reg!  How can I get _exactly_ what’s on the list, when I haven’t _got_ the bloody thing?’  He was furious with himself. He pictured it, folded in with his Hogwarts letter and stashed safely away in the secret compartment in his wardrobe.  It was safe, all right.  Completely safe, and absolutely useless to him now.

    It was a mark of the graveness of the situation that Regulus did not comment on the swearing.  He appeared to be considering the problem.

   ‘We could owl Mother,’ he suggested, after a moment.

   ‘Are you daft?’ howled Sirius, causing several people to turn and stare.  ‘She’d murder us! Well, me, anyway,’ he amended, in a slightly lower voice.  ‘That is, if Bellatrix didn’t get me first,’ he finished grimly.

  ‘Kreacher, then?’ Regulus persisted. 

    ‘No.’ said Sirius, resolutely.  Even if Kreacher consented to help them for the second time in one day (which seemed extremely unlikely, to him), there was no way he wanted the family elf to discover his small stash of hidden things.  It was the only shred of privacy he had.

    ‘Anyway, we haven’t got an owl,’ he pointed out.

    ‘Maybe Eeylops would let us borrow one, though,’ Regulus insisted.  ‘Or you could just _buy_ one! Isn’t a pet technically on the list?’

   ‘We’re not _owling anybody!’_ Sirius huffed in exasperation.

   ‘What _are_ we going to do then?’ he demanded, sounding mutinous.  It was clear that he was (rather insanely) committed to the owl idea.

    ‘It’s… a surprise,” Sirius told him, truthfully.  It _would_ be a surprise, to both of them, when he finally figured it out.  ‘Come on, we have to hurry!’

   ‘Why?’ asked Regulus, suspiciously.

    ‘You’ll see,’ Sirius promised vaguely.  ‘Let’s _go!’_

     Sirius had a dubious, half-formed theory that if his body was moving quickly enough, his brain might be forced to catch up.  Shop after shop flashed by as they sprinted through the marketplace, his mind working as frantically as his lungs.

  As they approached Ollivander’s, Sirius skidded to a stop.  Even without the list, he knew he needed a wand.  Also, he had an idea.  It was absolutely absurd, to be sure, but so far, nothing about this day had been remotely normal.  Sirius thought that maybe, possibly, there was a tiny chance that it might work.

     A very large, stern-faced woman who was clutching a pudgy, nervous-looking boy by the shoulder brushed past the brothers on her way out of the shop, nearly knocking them over. 

  “Watch yourselves, now!” the woman admonished them angrily, as they dodged around her and slipped into the shop just before the door closed.

  The hushed, cool interior was a startling contrast to the heat and the hustle outside; Sirius felt as if he’d suddenly plunged deep beneath the surface of a calm, still lake. It was disorienting, but in a nice way.  Mr Ollivander had his back to them and was muttering to himself in an irritated voice, clearly under the impression that he was alone.  Sirius cleared his throat, and the man jerked around in surprise.  He peered intently at each of them in turn, for much longer than was necessary, or comfortable.  Sirius fought the urge to squirm.

   ‘Ahhh, yes.’ he said at last. ‘The brothers Black. The heir…’ His spooky, silver eyes slid slowly over Sirius.  ‘And the spare,’ he continued, turning his gaze onto Regulus. He said this softly, with no hint of malice, but Sirius bristled inwardly, all the same

   Mr Ollivander seemed to sense this.

  ‘No harm meant, I assure you,’ he said.  ‘I sold your mother her wand, you know.  One of the first I ever made.  Hawthorn and unicorn hair, that was; rigid, seven inches even.’ He frowned slightly, as if he did not relish the memory, and Sirius warmed to him a little.

  ‘Now, your father… let me see,’  he pondered, and Sirius nearly groaned aloud.  If they had to listen to Old Creepy Eyes recite the history of every wand he’d ever sold, he’d be lucky to make it to Hogwarts before the Christmas holidays.

  ‘Aha, right. Of course.’  Mr Ollivander rambled on.  ‘Elm and dragon heartstring; springy, eight and a quarter inches.’

    Sirius met his brother’s eye and shrugged imperceptibly.  Neither of them knew what to make of this information, but Mr Ollivander did not seem to expect a response.  He was already bustling about the shop, plucking long narrow boxes from the towering shelves, seemingly at random.

   ‘Here we are, Mr Black. Here we are,’ he repeated, gliding over and gently removing a wand from its box.  ‘Your wand arm?’

   Sirius raised his left arm.  Mr Ollivander quirked a fluffy white brow but made no comment.

  ‘Blackthorn and dragon heartstring; bendy, eleven inches,’ he intoned grandly, passing the wand to Sirius, who grasped it apprehensively.

   Nothing happened.

  ‘No matter,’ Mr Ollivander said smoothly.  ‘It is highly unusual for the wand to choose the wizard on the very first try.’  He laid the blackthorn wand reverently in the box and picked up another.

    ‘Hmmm,’ he mumbled, mostly to himself.  ‘Dogwood and unicorn hair; whippy, ten and a half inches,’ as he pressed the wand into Sirius’s outstretched hand.

    Still, there was nothing.

    ‘Not to worry, not to worry,’ Mr Ollivander assured them brightly, snatching the dogwood wand away.  He shuffled through his stack of  boxes and hummed to himself.

    ‘Aha!’ he cried finally, pouncing on a box that, to Sirius, looked absolutely identical to all of the others.

    ‘Ebony and phoenix feather; slightly swishy, thirteen inches,’ he recited fondly, prying a jet black wand from the box.  ‘One of my more _interesting_ combinations,’ he confided.

    Sirius had barely touched the gleaming dark wood when it began to emit a soft, twinkling glow.  As he gripped the wand more firmly, he felt a rush of power from his fingertips down to his toes, and the glow became much brighter.  Almost _too_ bright.

    Expectantly, he glanced up at Mr Ollivander, who was shielding his pale eyes, but looking extremely satisfied. 

   ‘I believe we’ve done it, Mr Black,’ he nodded.

 

 

    ‘Sirius,’ Regulus sighed restlessly, about thirty minutes later, ‘How long is this going to take?’

    ‘I don’t _know,’_ Sirius replied testily, shuffling through yet another spell book.  ‘I haven’t found what I need yet.’

    They were hunkered down in an out-of-the-way corner of Flourish and Blotts, mostly hidden from the crowd and, more importantly, the shop assistants.  Sirius was hunched cross-legged on the floor, feverishly paging through a small mountain of books he had snatched hastily from the shelves.

    ‘I can help you find it,’ Regulus insisted, for at least the third time, ‘If you _tell me what it is.’_

    ‘You’re the lookout, remember?’ Sirius sighed, tossing aside _A Marauder’s Companion: A Comprehensive Guide to Magical Pillaging and Plundering_ , by Rover Corsaire, and picking up _The Practical Pickpocket_ , by Sneek E. Peate.

    ‘There’s nothing to look out _for,’_ he whined shrilly.

    Sirius winced. ‘Fine.’ he said shortly. Maybe giving his brother something else to do would keep him quiet for a while.  ‘I need to find a Summoning charm, or something like it.’

    ‘What for?’ Regulus badgered.

    ‘Merlin’s tits, Reg!’  Sirius exclaimed, slamming another book shut.  ‘Look around you! What do you see, absolutely everywhere?’

    ‘Books,’ said Regulus, grumpily.  ‘We’re in a _book shop.’_ he added, quite unnecessarily.

    Sirius was clinging desperately to his last shred of patience.  ' _First years,’_ he hissed.  ‘A massive crowd of first years, just like me, and _every one of them_ has got a list.  I just have to ‘borrow’ one.’

    Regulus gaped incredulously as he worked out what his brother had in mind.   ‘You’re telling me,’ he said slowly, ‘that you’re going to _Summon_ someone’s list, using a charm you _haven’t learned yet,_ with the wand you _just bought_ and _don’t know how to use?’_  

    ‘YES.’ snapped Sirius.  He didn’t see why this would be hard to understand.

    ‘But that’s at least a third year spell!’ Regulus practically shrieked, in disbelief.

   ‘Fourth, actually,’ drawled an interested voice, from right behind them.

    Sirius leapt to his feet and whipped around to face an unfamiliar boy with a ridiculous mess of unruly dark hair.  He was lounging casually against a forgotten, forlorn display of dusty Augurey quills, idly leafing through one of their discarded books.

   ‘Couldn’t help but overhear,’ the boy added, unapologetically.

   _Oh, I bet you could,_ thought Sirius, though he did not say it aloud.  Eavesdropping was one of his favorite pastimes; telling someone else off for doing it seemed like outrageous hypocrisy.   ‘Fourth year, you say?’ he said instead, leaning over to dig through the stack of books until he extricated _The Standard Book of Spells: Grade Four._ ‘Cheers, mate!’ he grinned, as he cracked it open.

   Regulus threw his hands in the air and stomped away in disgust.

   The wild-haired boy watched him go and shrugged.  ‘I do have a question, though,’ he said, turning back to Sirius.

   ‘So ask it.’ said Sirius bluntly.  He _really_ needed to concentrate.  _Why_ couldn’t everyone just leave him alone for five bloody minutes?

   The boy was looking Sirius up and down, smirking, and Sirius flushed, remembering what he was wearing.  He was desperately trying to think up a witty retort to the inevitable when a woman’s frustrated shout rang out through the shop.   

  ‘JAMES FLEAMONT POTTER! Where have you run off to _now?’_

   The boy cringed.

   ‘Is that _you?’_ Sirius asked, even though he could tell, from the boy’s mortified expression, that it was.  _‘Fleamont?’_

   It was James’s turn to flush with embarrassment, and a look of understanding passed between the two boys.   _I won’t make fun of you if you don’t make fun of me,_ they promised one another silently.

   ‘My mum,’ James muttered, jerking his tousled head in the direction the voice had come from.  ‘I better go.’

   Sirius nodded, in sympathy.

   ‘Oh!’ James exclaimed suddenly.  ‘Here,’ he handed Sirius the book he’d been holding.  ‘You never know; it might come in handy.’ he suggested cryptically, as he turned to walk away.

   ‘JAMES POTTER! I AM WARNING YOU!’ It sounded like she was getting closer.

   ‘I’m RIGHT HERE!’ James bellowed, then looked back at Sirius.  ‘See you at Hogwarts?’

   ‘See you,’  agreed Sirius, glancing down at the book in his hand.  It was _A Marauder’s Companion._ A rumpled scrap of parchment was sticking out of the pages.  A scrap of parchment that had not been there a few minutes ago.  A scrap of parchment that looked a lot like a Hogwarts book list.

 

     A short while later, he found Regulus, deeply engrossed in _Quidditch Through the Ages,_ and triumphantly waved the list under his brother’s nose.

    ‘Never doubt me again,’ he gloated.

    ‘You actually did it?’ Regulus dropped his book to snatch up the parchment and scan it skeptically.  ‘You actually learned the charm and everything?’

   ‘Well… there may have been a _slight_ change in the original plan,’ Sirius admitted.  ‘But basically, yes. I did it.’

   Regulus studied him shrewdly. ‘You asked that boy - the one with the hair - for _his_ list, didn’t you?’ he demanded finally.

     ‘No,’ said Sirius honestly.  'Anyway,’ he added, quickly changing the subject, ‘Let’s go. I have to pay for these…’ he held up a stack of school books ‘... _and_ get everything for Potions still.’

   ‘What’s _that_ one?’ Regulus wondered, pointing at the book on the top of the stack.

   ‘Just… something that might come in handy,’  Sirius replied vaguely, deftly sliding _A Marauder’s Companion_ beneath _A Beginner’s Guide to Transfiguration._ He wasn’t completely sure why he had decided to buy the book.  Somehow, it just hadn’t seemed right to leave it behind.

  ‘That can’t be on the list, though,’ Regulus reasoned, as he followed Sirius to the till.

  Sirius was counting out galleons to pay for his books, and did not bother to answer.

  ‘What if Bella sees it?’ Regulus persisted.

  ‘She won’t,’  replied Sirius, taking his package from the harassed-looking clerk and nudging through the crowd toward the doors.

  ‘Okay, let me guess,’ Regulus grumbled, as soon as they were outside.  ‘You’re going to learn an Invisibility Spell, in the next fourteen seconds.’

  ‘Nope.’ Sirius grinned, and theatrically hiked up his robes to stuff the book in question securely into his vest.

  He wondered exactly when his brother had become such a _snarky_ little git.  It was a definite improvement, he thought, over the Saint Regulus act.  He might even miss him a little, while he was at Hogwarts.

  

 

 

 


	5. The Bloodstained Wizard

   ‘Wand,’ Regulus read, from the now very battered-looking list.

   ‘Got it,’ said Sirius, holding it up.

   ‘Cauldron,’

   ‘Yep.’

   ‘Phials?’

   ‘Right here,’

   ‘Telescope?’

   ‘Uh-huh.’

   ‘Scales?’

   ‘Yeah.’

   ‘And… protective gloves.’  Regulus scrutinized the list for a moment before looking satisfied.  ‘That’s the last thing.’

   ‘Uhhh…’ Sirius fished around in the cauldron, finally locating the pair of dragon-hide gloves lurking on the very bottom.  ‘Here they are!’ he waved them about victoriously before dropping them back inside with the rest of his supplies and books, save for his wand, which he stowed carefully in his pocket.

   ‘Can we go look at brooms now?’ Regulus begged.  ‘You said we could, remember?’

   ‘Sure,’ said Sirius agreeably, figuring they had plenty of time.

   They spent quite a while admiring the new Nimbus Five Hundred, and even longer at Sugarplum’s Sweets (though they steered very clear of the Cockroach Cluster display).  So long, that as they exited the shop, their pockets stuffed with contraband cakes and secret sweets, Sirius noted with a sinking heart that the shadows had grown ominously long.

   It was nearly sunset.

   ‘Sirius?’ Regulus piped up, worriedly.  ‘What time is it?’

   ‘Er… I don’t know,’ he admitted it.  ‘Haven’t got a watch, have you?’

   Regulus shook his head.

   ‘Right. Well…’

   The brothers exchanged a panicked look, and broke into a run, dashing madly through the alley for the second time that day.  Racing over rough cobblestones while clutching a heavy cauldron, stuffed with even heavier books, was every bit as awkward as it sounds.  Thankfully, the crowd had thinned considerably, but several straggling shoppers were still milling about.  Just outside the Leaky Cauldron, one of these unintentionally knocked Sirius’s elbow as he flew past, and he lost his grip on his supplies.  Trying to catch them, he overbalanced and hit the stones hard.

  The cauldron bounced down the path, spewing its contents in every direction and making a terrific clanging racket.  Sirius lay stunned for a moment.  Regulus, who’d been ahead of him, swung around and trotted back, his face etched with dread.

   ‘I’m all right,’ Sirius assured him, sitting up gingerly.  He shook his head to clear it and stiffly got to his feet, checking to make sure his wand was still in his pocket.

   Regulus heaved a relieved sigh, and turned to chase down the runaway cauldron.  Hastily, the two of them stuffed everything back into it.When he finally limped into the pub, Sirius was sporting torn robes, a rather dented cauldron, and a bleeding left knee.  The clock above the bar read 7:25.

  He and Regulus looked at each other and grinned. They had made it.

 

    Exactly half past seven came, then went, with no sign of Bellatrix.  Sirius was unconcerned; he was occupied with trying to mop up all the blood from his knee.  It was scraped quite badly, though he was not terribly bothered about the pain.  He’d survived worse, and (if he was lucky) he would again, when his mother saw that he had ruined his wretched robes.  His best hope was to rearrange the folds so the damage did not show, and pray she wouldn’t notice it until he was safely off at Hogwarts.  He might actually get away with it; the first of September was less than a month away. His mother would probably invite a Half-blood to tea before she would present him dressed the same way twice, in such a short amount of time.  If an occasion arose (though he hoped mightily that none would), he was quite sure he’d be required to wear something else.

   ‘Sirius?’ Regulus said, sounding worried.  ‘What do we do if Bella doesn’t come get us?’

   ‘I bet she’ll be here any minute,’ Sirius assured him.  ‘She probably just lost track of time,’ _Probably got distracted Crucio-ing kittens,_ he thought to himself, _or whatever it is that bloodthirsty maniacs do for fun._

   But minute after minute ticked by, and Bellatrix did not appear.  The shops had begun to close, and the pub was filling with weary shopkeepers, hurrying to find seats at the bar. A few of them glanced at the brothers camped out in the corridor by the fireplace with mild curiosity, but no one challenged them.  They all seemed to be eager for a drink.

   ‘I’m tired,’ Regulus complained.

   It really was getting late.  ‘Maybe we ought to go look for her,’ Sirius mused.

   ‘Where, though?’ Regulus asked, rather crankily.  ‘Everything’s closed already!’

   ‘Not in Knockturn Alley,’ said Sirius grimly.  He was sure that’s where she was.

   ‘We can’t go in there ,’ Regulus objected, aghast. 

   ‘Why not?’ Sirius said, more to needle his brother than because he actually wanted to go.

   He didn’t like the idea either.  For one thing, his knee had begun throbbing.  He didn’t relish the thought of limping through all those twisted, grimy passageways while lugging his books and cauldron, with his whining little brother in tow.  For another, it would probably be a fool’s errand.  Even if he had an inkling of where to look (he didn’t), he doubted that his cousin was anywhere she could be found by, as she had so eloquently put it, a pair of snot-nosed fucking brats.

   ‘Never mind,’ he said, quickly, before Regulus could start whinging again.  ‘Bad idea,’

   The trouble was, he didn’t have a good idea, or even a mediocre one.  It was becoming increasingly obvious that Bellatrix was not coming to fetch them.  They would have to get home on their own, somehow.

   ‘Can’t we just Floo home by ourselves?’ Regulus demanded.

   They probably could have, he explained to Regulus, if they had lived somewhere other than number twelve, Grimmauld Place.  Access would be restricted by intense security wards and enchantments; there would be no way anyone could just wander into the ancestral home of the Black family, from a common pub.  (Sirius shuddered to think of what would happen to anyone who tried.)  The same thing surely applied to the Black Estate, and probably Uncle Alphard’s cottage, as well.  If he could somehow get a message to his uncle, he mused aloud, he was sure Alphard would lift the wards, and let them through…

   ‘Bet you wish you’d bought that owl now,’ Regulus said smugly.

    _I’ve changed my mind,_ decided Sirius, glumly.  _I miss the old, quiet, obedient little brother. This new snarky one is a right pain in my-_

   A sudden disturbance arose in the courtyard, startling him out of his thoughts.  A moment later, a wild-eyed wizard stumbled past them into the pub, shouting incoherently. He staggered crazily into the bar area and sank suddenly to his knees, white-faced and glassy eyed.

   The barman hurried over, and knelt down beside him.   ‘Call the Aurors,’ he said sharply, to a nervously fluttering barmaid. ‘Now.’

   She rushed away.  It was then that Sirius noticed that the man was covered in blood.

 

   Moments later, the courtyard echoed with the pops and cracks of Apparition as swarms of Aurors descended on the Alley.  They came stampeding into the Leaky Cauldron, and Sirius and his brother moved hastily from the corridor into an out-of-the-way booth, before they could be trampled.  They watched as a tall, fierce looking Auror bent and spoke to the bloody man intently, in a voice too low for even Sirius, eavesdropper extraordinaire, to pick up.  After a moment, the Auror turned abruptly away from the man and strode past them toward the courtyard, with another Auror, who was dark haired and and very short, at his heels.

   ‘... won’t need the healer down here.’ he was saying to her. ‘That isn’t _his_ blood,’

   At the door, he turned and barked ‘Hornby!’

   An anxious-looking Auror wearing almost comically oversized spectacles snapped to attention.

   ‘You and MacFusty! Secure this area! No one leaves until they have been questioned!’

   Hornby nodded solemnly, looking terrified.

   ‘The rest of you, follow me to the scene!’ he snapped. ‘We’re not here for a bloody pint!’

   There was a bit of grumbling amongst the crowd of Aurors as they all trooped back down the corridor that led out to Diagon Alley, and Sirius distinctly heard one of them muttering  ‘Who died and left _him_ in charge then?’

   Sirius wondered where, exactly, the scene was.  Wherever it was, it was undoubtedly swimming in blood.  Probably human blood, but maybe not.  He had a sudden, morbid vision of a massacre at the Magical Menagerie and he shook his head violently to clear it.  Shivering a bit, he turned his attention back to the bloodstained wizard, who was now being helped into a chair and coaxed to drink something by an auburn haired Auror, presumably MacFusty.  A calming draught?  Sirius felt like he could use one of those himself.

   At the bar, Hornby was attempting to dissuade several grumpy-looking patrons from trying to leave.

   ‘I just need to ask you all a few quick questions,’ he insisted.

   ‘I ain’t _done_ nuffink,’ fussed an ancient, cantankerous-looking wizard, who had quite a lot of white hair sprouting from his wrinkled ears.

   ‘I know you haven’t, sir.’ Hornby assured him.  ‘I just want to talk for a minute.’

   ‘Bah!’ Old Hairy Ears groused.  ‘If _you_ know I ain’t done nuffink, and _I_ know I ain’t, what’s to talk about, then? Waste o’ bloody time, innit?’

   ‘It’s procedure, sir, if you could just -’

    _‘Bollocks_ to yer procedure!’ Hairy Ears exclaimed, going very red in the face.

   Poor Hornby seemed quite helpless, and had actually begun to wring his hands, when the barman smoothly stepped in.

   ‘Pints on the house, for anyone being questioned!’ he announced.

   The tension eased instantaneously.  Hornby looked almost pathetically grateful as the patrons began to crowd around him, suddenly eager to report what they had seen.

   Through all of this, no one had paid the slightest bit of attention to the two boys sprawled in the corner booth.  Sirius twisted in his seat to say something to Regulus, only to discover him slumped against the wall, fast asleep.  Yawning, Sirius laid his head on his forearms, intending to rest his eyes.   Just for a minute, he promised himself.

 

   He awoke with a jerk, and gazed around blearily, unable to place his surroundings at first.

   ‘I said, where are your parents, son?’ an impatient voice growled, from somewhere far above him.

   Sirius lifted his head and blinked at the tall, hazy figure looming over him.  Slowly, the fierce-faced Auror he’d seen earlier slid into focus, against the backdrop of the now nearly empty pub.

   ‘I’m... not sure,’ Sirius answered fuzzily.  ‘At home, probably. Sir,’ he added, as an afterthought.

   ‘Do they know where you are?’ the Auror demanded.

    _The question is, do they care?_ thought Sirius, but he chose not to say this out loud.  He only shrugged.  ‘I have no idea, sir.’

   ‘What are you doing here at this time of night, alone?’

   Sirius gestured to the cauldron stuffed with books and supplies.

   ‘We were here to get my Hogwarts things…’ he trailed off, remembering Bellatrix’s choking fingers on his neck.  He was quite sure she would not want to be mentioned to any Aurors.

   ‘By yourselves?’ the Auror demanded keenly.

   ‘We were... with my cousin,’ Sirius admitted reluctantly, unconsciously massaging his throat.  ‘We...got separated,’ he improvised, ‘and she said to wait here, so…’

   ‘So you chose to kip in the pub instead of flooing yourselves home?’ he sneered, clearly implying that Sirius was some kind of idiot.

   ‘Merlin’s beard, Moody!’ the small, dark-haired Auror that Sirius had noticed earlier appeared at his elbow.  ‘Calm down, he’s just a kid!’

   ‘A kid who just happens to be out unsupervised, at the scene of a crime!’ Moody barked.  ‘Very suspicious, if you ask me, Hopkins!’

   ‘Well, I _didn’t_ ask you,’ Hopkins said sweetly, winking at Sirius.  ‘Also,’ she went on, ‘As you _ever so politely_ pointed out earlier, this is a place _to have a bloody pint,_ NOT the crime scene.'

   Moody ignored her. ‘What’s your name, son?’

   ‘I’m Sirius. Sirius Black,’ he answered.  ‘And that’s my brother, Regulus,’ he gestured toward the (somehow) still sleeping Regulus.

   ‘Black, huh?’ Moody narrowed his dark, rather beady eyes.  ‘Tell me, Mr Black, where do you live?’

   ‘Number twelve, Grimmauld Place, in Islington.’

   ‘Hmmph.’ Moody grunted.  ‘Orion Black is your father?’

   Sirius nodded.

   ‘Explains why they couldn’t use the floo, then,’ he muttered to Hopkins, just loud enough for Sirius to overhear.  ‘Black’s got every security measure known to wizardkind - and some that probably aren’t - protecting that place,’ Moody explained.  ‘Anyone tried to enter from here, they’d be blasted to bits.’

   ‘Even a member of the family?’  Hopkins looked disturbed at that, and Sirius decided that he liked her.

   ‘There’s probably some sort of password,or key spell,’ Moody speculated.  ‘I take it you don’t know it?’ he added, looking at Sirius as if he were a moron again.

   He shook his head.  He’d never been told any of the passwords, though the purpose of that had always been to keep him _in_ the house, not out of it.  

   ‘This missing cousin of yours, would _she_ know it?’ Moody pressed.

   ‘I guess so,’ Sirius shifted uncomfortably.  ‘She’d have to, wouldn’t she?’

   Moody grunted again.  ‘And you have no idea where she could be?’

   Sirius shook his head again, and stifled a yawn.  His eyes burned, and his torn-up knee was aching. He just wanted to go back to sleep.

   Hopkins seemed to notice this.  ‘Give it up, Moody,’ she said firmly, ‘Question time is over.’

   Moody snorted.  ‘I haven’t even gotten started,’ he contradicted her.

   ‘Oh,  _really?’_ she challenged, her eyes flashing dangerously.  ‘You _haven’t started_ interrogating an underage wizard without a parent or guardian present?  In absolute defiance of protocol?  Well, _good!'_    she said icily.  ‘I suggest that you _don't!'_

   Moody actually looked abashed.  Sirius found this quite funny; the big, tough Auror being so savagely put into place by the tiny, friendly one.  He was much too tired to laugh, though.

   ‘Now,’ Hopkins said, softening her tone to address Sirius.  ‘Let’s get you home.  Can you wake up your brother for me?’

   Sirius stood, wincing at the sting in his wounded knee.  He reached over the table and nudged Regulus, shoving at him progressively harder until he finally opened his eyes.

   ‘W-what’s going on?’ he blinked, looking extremely confused.

   ‘They’re taking us home,’ Sirius told him, gesturing to the pair of Aurors behind them, who were arguing once more.

    ‘I can handle a couple of kids, Moody!’ Hopkins was insisting.

   ‘It’s not the kids I’m worried about,’ Moody retorted, refusing to back down.  ‘They’re a strange family, Hopkins.  Dangerous.  I’m your partner, and you’re not going near that house without backup!’ he told her firmly.  Privately, Sirius thought Moody had the right idea.

   ‘Fine,’ Hopkins sighed, and turned toward the boys.  ‘Ready?’ she asked them.

   They both nodded dutifully and allowed her to shepherd them out of the pub, leaving Moody to grapple with the cauldron full of supplies.

 

   ‘Have either of you done Side-Along Apparition before?’ she asked, turning to face them in the tiny courtyard.

   ‘No,’ Sirius answered for both of them, since Regulus still looked a little discombobulated.

   ‘Okay, well, it’s not the most comfortable way to travel,’ she admitted.  ‘But it’s definitely the fastest.  You’ll be home in your beds in just a few minutes,’ she promised.

   ‘Okay,’ said Sirius.  That sounded good to him.  After a beat, Regulus nodded his agreement.

   ‘Take my hands,’ Hopkins instructed, holding one out to each of them.

   Moody started to protest, but Hopkins nodded at the cauldron.  ‘You’ll need both hands for that,’ she pointed out.

   ‘Now, hold tight,’ she advised, and Sirius gripped her small, strong hand more firmly.  ‘And whatever you do,’ she added gravely, ‘do NOT let go!’

 _Not comfortable_ was a supremely inadequate description, Sirius decided, a heartbeat later.  The world had become a screaming blur of colour and nearly unbearable pressure. It felt like his insides were being violently squeezed out.  This was probably what it _really_ felt like to be devoured by a Lethifold.  He barely had time to register this thought, though,  before it was over, and they landed panting on the pavement in front of number twelve, Grimmauld Place.  For the first time he could remember, he was actually relieved to see it.

   His relief did not last.

 

   The first time he awoke, he wasn’t sure what had happened, or how much time had passed.  He wasn’t sure where he was, who he was, or even _if_ he was.  The one thing he was sure of was the pain.  It crashed over him in screaming, throbbing waves.  He couldn’t pinpoint where it was coming from; his entire body felt mashed and pulpy, bruised and bleeding.  He wanted to scream, but his throat didn’t seem to be working.  All that came out was an odd, strangled croak.  The effort of this exhausted him, and he sank deep into blessed darkness once more.

   The next time he opened his eyes, things were a bit better.  He still couldn’t remember what had happened, but the pain had receded to a deep, pulsing ache, with only an occasional sharp stab.  After a moment, he was even able to sit up, slowly, and take stock of his surroundings.  He was in his bedroom at home, lying on top of the bedclothes as if he’d been dumped there.  The blankets, pillow and his pyjamas were all speckled with droplets of dried blood.  On the bedside table sat an untouched cup of tea in a saucer, and a half-used bottle of Skele-Gro.  His door was closed, and probably locked from the outside; he didn’t feel quite ready to try to get up and check.

   He could see that his Hogwarts supplies were stacked neatly on the desk, and he thought he had a vague memory of putting them there.  The Murder Robes lay crumpled and inert on the carpet in front of the wardrobe.  Could they have attacked him again, when he was taking them off, he wondered.  He thought it seemed unlikely.  Though if the robes hadn’t beat the bloody stuffing out of him, what (or who) had?

   He was inclined to suspect his mother, who seemed to get a sick thrill out of inflicting pain upon her eldest son.  But her modus operandi was generally Pinching Jinxes and Stinging Hexes; painful but basically harmless spells that left no marks or scars.  She had never done anything like this.

   Perhaps he had finally pushed her over the edge.  But if he had committed an offence so egregious that his mother had been driven to beat him practically to death (at least, that’s what it felt like), why didn’t he remember doing it?  That seemed monstrously unfair.  If he was going to be punished this severely, he ought to at least have gotten some enjoyment out of breaking the rules.

   Had he somehow managed to nick his father’s Firewhiskey, then gotten so drunk that he blacked out?  This, too, was an unlikely scenario.  Not that he would sneak Firewhiskey; he’d always wondered what it tasted like.  But that he, an untrained, eleven-year-old wizard, would be able to breach any of his father’s (apparently notorious) protective spells or enchantments.

   With great effort, he mentally sifted through his last few hazy recollections.  He’d been waiting at the Leaky Cauldron with Regulus.  There had been a blood-covered man, and then the Aurors had come.  He remembered Moody’s dark, suspicious eyes, and the cheerful contrast of his tiny partner.  Hopkins, that was her name.  He remembered the awful, squeezing sensation of Apparition, and the Aurors accompanying them up the steps to the front door. 

   He remembered Moody scoffing at the silver, serpent-shaped knocker, and Hopkins shushing him, just as Kreacher answered the door, looking very surprised to see them all standing there.

   He remembered the commotion in the entryway as his mother rushed in; all of them talking at once.  Kreacher was fussing over Regulus; Mrs Black was convinced that Sirius had committed some terrible crime; Sirius was protesting his innocence, and Hopkins (bless her), was staunchly backing him up.

   Oh, and Moody appeared to be aggressively interrogating the hat stand, but that part may have been a dream.

   He remembered his mother ordering him and Regulus up to bed, the weary climb up the stairs, and the perpetual grumble of the portraits.  He remembered putting down his Hogwarts things.  And after that, he remembered... nothing. Nothing at all.

   Drained from his efforts, Sirius sank back onto his pillow with a frustrated groan.  Soon he was drifting in and out of an uneasy twilight slumber.  He was awakened a few times by Kreacher, to either be force-fed some foul-tasting potion or led groggily to the toilet.  It could have been several hours, or several days, that passed in this manner.  He had no way to tell.

   The next time he awoke fully, he felt quite a bit stronger.  He managed to shuffle stiffly out of bed to check the door.  As he had suspected, he was locked in.

   With a stab of panic, he wondered how long his mother intended to keep him in this room, and how long he’d been imprisoned here already.  Had school started yet?  Would anyone wonder where he was?  Would anyone come looking for him? He had a brief, vivid fantasy of the Auror Hopkins charging in to rescue him (a vision that made him blush slightly, and that he immediately decided to never, ever tell anyone about).

   But no one would be coming, he realized gloomily.  What was it that Moody had said?  _If anyone tried, they’d be blasted to bits._

   He pictured himself growing ancient in this room, a mad old man with a wild, white beard; trapped forever in this house like the grumbling portraits of his ancestors, and he shuddered at the thought.  He would rather be torn apart by rampaging thestrals, or have his soul sucked out by a hundred dementors.  Or… absolutely anything, aside from wasting away inside of number twelve, Grimmauld Place.

   He hobbled his way determinedly over to the desk, to pick up his wand and The Standard Book of Spells, Grade One.  If no one was going to get him out, he’d have to learn enough magic to do it for himself.

 

     At first, time passed almost pleasantly, all things considered.  He spent his waking moments practicing wand movements and incantations, and soon he felt as if he had a reasonable grasp on several simple spells.  _Alohomora_ had failed to work on his bedroom door, but he’d been expecting that; no first year spell would be a match for the Black wards.  He was going to have to get creative.  He wondered if a body-bind would work on a house elf.

   Too chancey, he decided.  House elves had their own kind of magic, and it was complicated stuff; he’d have no way of knowing if the spell would have its intended effect until he’d tried it.  And if it didn’t work… well, it was a risk he could not afford to take.  Perhaps he could create a diversion instead… turn his wardrobe into an angry acromantula or something…

   His wardrobe!  Shoving his transfiguration book aside, he rolled off the bed and strode across the room as quickly as his still-aching limbs would allow.  He flung open the wardrobe doors and knelt stiffly, fumbling around for the catch that released the false bottom.  As it sprang open, he smiled, and congratulated his past self for having the presence of mind to empty his clothing of all contraband.  He’d managed to get it safely stashed away before his mysterious fate had befallen him.  Happily, he plucked out A Marauder’s Companion and a large handful of sweets, before carefully replacing the panel.  As always, he said a fervent prayer of thanks to whichever long-dead family member had once lived in this room, and had felt the need to create such a convenient hiding place.  He would be forever in their debt.

   About three sunsets later (apparently, the Tempus Charm was not a first year spell), Sirius was restless, frustrated, a little bit hopeless, and very hungry.  He’d pored over each of his textbooks, picking out the spells that might be useful, and practicing them diligently.  The trouble was, without a partner to practice with, he had no idea if he was even doing them right.  He couldn’t Disarm himself, obviously, or check the strength of his own Shield Charm.  A Marauder’s Companion had been an interesting read, and had even included an entire chapter on unconventional methods of breaking and entering, but none of those spells had been a match for the impenetrable blockade that was his bedroom door.

   Also, he’d eaten every single one of his sweets.

   He was forced to conclude that his Great Escape Plan may not have been all that great.  He was paging glumly through the transfiguration book once again (he hadn’t completely given up on the idea of transforming the wardrobe into some dangerous beast.  If nothing else, it would break the monotony), when his wand _spoke_ to him.

  _‘Avast ye!’_ it whispered hoarsely.  _‘Abscond with thy booty! Beware! The law is nigh!’_

   Sirius stared, convinced for a moment that he’d gone round the twist already (he had naively assumed it would take at least a few years for him to lose his mind entirely), before he remembered that he’d attempted to cast a Lookout charm from his new favourite book on the wand.  It was supposed to warn him when anyone approached.

   And it worked!  Belatedly, he realized that meant that somebody probably _was_ coming, so he hastily stuffed his wand and his spell books behind his pillow (no need for anyone to guess what he was up to), and leaned back, trying to look nonchalant.

   Kreacher eased through the door, snapping it shut behind him.  Sirius watched as the elf scurried about the room, yanking pants and socks and trousers from the bureau, and a plain, dark robe from a hanger, which he laid out on a chair.  Only after he had done all this did Kreacher deign to speak.

   ‘The brat must have a bath,’ he announced, and before Sirius could fully process what was happening, he was being dragged down the hall to the bathroom.  Briefly, he considered trying to make a run for it, but the elf had an iron grip on his hair.

   ‘Why is it _always_ the hair?’ Sirius grumbled.  He was going to be bald before he turned twelve.

   Kreacher’s only response was to shove him into the bathroom and slam the door.  A bath had been drawn, but Sirius didn’t get into it right away.  First, he needed to examine the room for any possibility of an escape route.  Secret passages, mostly used by house elves as shortcuts to other rooms, were not unheard of in this house, and he’d never thought to look for one in here.  But after running his fingers over each and every jade-coloured tile, he was certain that the only way out was the door.  Or a drain.  He’d probably need a bit more transfiguration training before he tried _that_.

   Admitting defeat for the moment, he peeled off his grotty pyjamas and sank into the warm water.  It felt amazing on his still sore body, but there was no time to luxuriate; Kreacher had begun muttering impatiently and pounding rhythmically on the door.  Sirius considered simply ignoring him, but he wanted to have some hair left on his head by the end of the day, so he scrubbed up as quickly as he could and climbed out.

   As he dried himself, he took an inventory of his fading bruises. There was no pattern that he could see, no clue as to what might have happened.  He hurriedly wrapped himself in a robe, as Kreacher’s door drumming reached a crescendo.

   ‘All right!’ he shouted, over the frenzied banging, which ceased immediately.  The lock clicked, and Sirius calmly opened the door.

   ‘Shall we?’ he said, offering an arm to Kreacher.

   Ignoring the arm, the elf reached up to seize a handful of wet hair.  Sirius sighed in resignation, and consoled himself with the hope that, in a few years’ time, he would grow too tall for the ridiculously long-armed Kreacher to reach his head.

   When they got back to the bedroom, Regulus was lounging cross-legged on the bed, next to a loaded dinner tray.

   ‘Sirius!’ he exclaimed happily.  ‘Mother gave me permission to eat up here with you tonight! I’ve been asking every night,’ he added, ‘but she always said you needed your rest.’

   As pleased as he was to see another human being for the first time in ages, Sirius was even more pleased to see the food.  He could not remember the last time he’d eaten anything that wasn’t ice cream or sweets.  He thought he’d be just fine if he never saw another Bertie Botts Every Flavour Bean in his lifetime.  He had about a million questions for his brother, but those could wait.  He fell upon his dinner with such savagery that Regulus actually averted his eyes, and Kreacher left the room in disgust.

   As soon as the door had closed behind the elf, Sirius laid down his fork.

   ‘So what did I do?’ he asked bluntly.

   ‘What did you…’ Regulus looked confused.  ‘What do you mean?’

   ‘I mean,’ said Sirius bitterly, picking up a chicken leg, ‘ What did I do to be punished like this? Even for Mother, it seems… you know, _insane._ I must have done something really bad; I just can’t remember doing it.’

   ‘You- you’re not being punished,’ Regulus stammered in surprise,  ‘Do you… you don’t remember anything?’

   ‘Obviously not,’ said Sirius, taking a huge bite of chicken.

   ‘You _fell_ , Sirius,” Regulus informed him.  ‘From the top floor landing, straight down.’

   Sirius nearly choked on his chicken, and Regulus had to pound him on the back until he spat it out.

  _‘What?’_ he gasped when he got his breath back.  ‘No way. How? When?’

   ‘It was that morning, after the Aurors brought us home. Really early. I… couldn’t sleep,’ Regulus muttered, looking slightly shamefaced.  ‘All that blood…’ he grimaced, then gathered himself and went on.   ‘Anyway, I was right there, when you landed,’ he shuddered, remembering.  ‘It was really, really scary, Sirius. Your eyes were open, but they looked all… empty.  It looked like you were dead.  Bella said you were probably sleepwalking, that’s why you looked so...weird.’

   ‘Bellatrix was here?’ Sirius asked sharply.

   Regulus nodded.  ‘She came by to apologize about Diagon Alley,’ he explained.

   Sirius snorted in disbelief.

   ‘She said that Rodolphus -her husband, you know- that he was really, really ill and she had to take him to Saint Mungo’s,’ Regulus reported.  ‘She said they were there all night, that she came straight from the hospital when she realized she’d left us, to make sure we were all right.’

   Sirius snorted again.  ‘Mother didn’t fall for _that,_ did she? How did Bellatrix explain being away from us in the first place?’

   Regulus shook his head.  ‘I don’t know.’ he admitted.  ‘That’s all I heard before Mother sent me up to get dressed. I had only just come back down when… when you fell.’

   ‘What happened after?’ Sirius wondered.

   ‘They floo-called a Healer- I'd never seen him before- and then brought you upstairs.  They wouldn’t let me in the room at all,’ he added, looking indignant.  ‘I waited in the corridor for ages, until Mother came out and said you were going to be all right- you just needed to rest.’

   Sirius was genuinely touched by his brother’s professed concern; it was nice to know that at least one person he knew might have been bothered if he’d died.  He was about to say so when he had a sudden thought.

   ‘So,’ he challenged.  ‘If I wasn’t being punished, why did Mother lock me in my room for so long?’

   Regulus stared at him as if he were a complete idiot.  ‘I imagine it was to keep you from sleepwalking over the landing _again,’_ he said dryly.

   ‘Oh.’ Sirius deflated.  He supposed that made sense.  Except for the sleepwalking bit.  As far as he knew, he’d never done _that_ before.  But then, if it happened when he was asleep, he _wouldn’t_ know, would he?  He was still mulling it over when he was struck by another thought.

   ‘How long was I out of it?’ he wondered.  ‘What’s the date?’

   ‘It was a little over three weeks,’ Regulus informed him.  ‘Today’s the thirty-first of August.’

   Sirius grinned, and all thoughts of sleepwalking, his mother, and his creepy cousin were forgotten.

   Tomorrow, he was going to Hogwarts.

 

 

   Sirius was struggling to keep his eyes focused on the tiny, smudged print in The Pureblood Directory (Expanded Edition), and finding it extremely difficult.  He was bursting with anticipation for the next day, and all he wanted to do was go upstairs, pack his trunk, and bring himself one step closer to Hogwarts.  At the moment, sitting quietly under his father’s watchful eye felt like torture.  Also, the author of the book was an absolutely terrible writer.  It was no wonder he had insisted upon remaining anonymous.  Between the brief histories of each family that made up the Sacred Twenty Eight, the author had inserted repetitive, opinionated rants that ran on for page after endless page.  The entire six hundred and sixty-six page book could have been boiled down to a list of names and a single statement:  _Pureblood good; half-blood bad; murder all muggles,_ and saved everyone a lot of time.

   Restless, Sirius lifted his head a furtive fraction and gazed surreptitiously about the room.  This was the first time he’d ever been allowed into his father’s private study; usually their lessons took place in the drawing room.  Tonight, though, he’d been summoned here.  Seeing it was a bit of a letdown.  He’d always imagined that a forbidden study would be much more interesting.  Really, there was nothing to distinguish this room from the rest of the house, except that it was the place where his father spent nearly all of his waking hours.

   The high shelves lining the walls were packed with ancient, dark-spined books.  A hulking, intricately carved cabinet lurked in one corner, crowded with sinister-seeming ornaments.  A marble bust of Salazar Slytherin threw strange shadows in the torchlight beneath the single, small window, which had obviously been installed for owl access, rather than to let in any sort of light.  There was an antique roll-top desk, where his father now sat, nursing a tumbler of what was probably firewhiskey, and the wing chairs in front of the fireplace, one of which was occupied by Sirius.

    Mr Black cleared his throat, and Sirius quickly bent his head back toward the book, in a reasonable facsimile of studiousness.  He even turned a page, as if he actually cared to read what was on the next one.  He was about to drift off into a daydream when something caught his eye.  A family name that was _not_ on the list he’d been required to recite, _ad_ _nauseum_.

  ‘Father,’ he blurted, before considering whether or not it was really a good idea, ‘Who are the Weasleys?’

   It was like lighting a Filibuster’s firework.  Never had he seen his father so passionately worked up about anything.  Normally, it was his mother who ranted and raved, while his father stood impassively aloof.  But now, he paced the room, gesticulating wildly, during a rather disjointed diatribe against blood traitors.  Sirius found it a bit difficult to keep up, but from what he could gather, a relative of theirs called Cedrella Black had married a man called Septimus Weasley, and his father did not approve of this at all.

   ‘...So, as you can see, there is no greater shame than to consort with muggles.’  His father was winding down at last.  ‘I trust I have made myself clear,’ he added.

   ‘Yes, sir,’ lied Sirius shamelessly.

   ‘Good. Now,’ he continued, making his way back to the desk, ‘Come over here, son.’

   Obediently, Sirius heaved the book from his lap and went to stand beside him.  He watched as his father retrieved a bottle of _Ogden’s Black Label_  from a locked drawer, and rather sloppily splashed a generous measure into each of two crystal tumblers that sat on the desk.

 _Merlin’s earwax!_ Sirius thought in amazement.  _He’s drunk! Is_ that _what he does in here all day?_   After a moment’s reflection, Sirius decided that he couldn’t really hold it against the man; if he ever found himself married to a woman like his mother, no one would be able to pry the bottle from his hands.  He’d put it there himself with a Permanent Sticking charm, just to make absolutely sure.

   ‘A toast,’ said Mr Black, in a tone that made it clear that this was a command, not an invitation, as he handed one of the tumblers to Sirius.  He accepted it without comment, as if he did this every day.

   ‘ _Toujours pur,’_ his father intoned, holding his glass aloft.

 _‘Toujours pur,_ ’ Sirius repeated, copying him.

   A moment later he discovered exactly why they called it firewhiskey.  It burned with the fury of a thousand angry dragons.  His mouth felt blistered; boiling tears streamed down his face, and he was quite certain that steam was pouring out of his ears.  Vaguely, he was aware that his father was talking ( a grave, formal-sounding speech about how Sirius was now _poised on the cusp of manhood,_ or something), but he was in no condition to listen properly.  All he could do was nod along, until finally, finally, his father gave him a very awkward pat on the back and sent him on his way.

   Sirius hurried gratefully up the stairs toward his room.  His throat was still stinging and his whole face felt scorched, but there was also a warm tingle that had begun in his belly and spread outward through his limbs.  The aching stiffness left over from his injuries had vanished; in its place was a pleasant sort of fuzziness.  It _was_ rather nice, he thought, but he doubted he’d want to try drinking more firewhiskey anytime soon.  He waved at the portraits as they muttered and moaned at his passing, but none of them waved back.  They just glared at him like they always did.  He remained cheerfully unaffected; after tomorrow morning, he wouldn’t have to see any of their miserable faces until at least Christmas break.

   At the top of the landing, Sirius stumbled slightly on the carpet runner and crashed into the balustrade.  The same one he’d apparently fallen over, weeks earlier.  Steadying himself against it, he noted that the highest edge reached well over his hip.  It seemed impossible that he could have just accidentally toppled over it.  To clear the railing, a person his height would probably have to deliberately climb it. Or jump. Or… be pushed.

   Suddenly, the shadows on the landing seemed a bit more sinister.  A floorboard creaked behind him, and he froze.  He slid shaking fingers into his pocket, and felt them close over his wand. He took a steadying breath, and spun to face his attacker.

‘ _Expelli-’_ he cried, then stopped.  ‘Merlin’s hairy arse crack, Reg!’ he groaned.  ‘ _How many times?’_

   He lowered his wand in disgust, heart hammering.  He couldn’t believe he’d nearly cursed the bollocks off his own little brother.  Or.... well, he actually had no idea what would happen if you tried to Disarm someone who wasn’t armed.  Probably not _that._

   ‘Sorry,’ Regulus looked up sheepishly from the floor, where he was crouched in a protective stance.  ‘What were you _doing,_ just standing out here, staring into space?’

   ‘Nothing,’ Sirius replied quickly, leaning down to help him to his feet.  ‘Er, want to help me pack for Hogwarts?’

   ‘Sure,’ said Regulus happily, his question instantly forgotten.

 

   His school trunk was what his mother would call a priceless family heirloom; Sirius himself thought of it more as an ancient monstrosity.  Like nearly everything else the Blacks owned, it was made of highly polished dark wood, and accented with hideous carvings of serpents and gargoyles.  At the moment, however, Sirius was not concerned with the ugliness of the trunk.  He only cared about what was going inside of it. He raced around the room, tossing items in at random.

  Regulus just sat on the bed, watching him.  At first, he kept up a steady stream of cheerful chatter, but as the trunk filled, he got quieter and quieter, and his face grew more and more somber.

   At last, Sirius stopped flitting madly about, and stood still, slowly surveying the room.

   ‘I think that’s it,’ he announced, with satisfaction.

   Regulus said nothing, and Sirius paid him no attention.  He was busy struggling with the overflowing trunk, which was stubbornly refusing to close.

   ‘Give a hand, will you, Reg?’ he panted, now bouncing energetically on the contents, in an exuberant effort to mash everything down.

   Regulus gave a barely audible sniff, and Sirius glanced at him in irritation, ready to say something snarky.  He paused when he saw that his brother was curled into a ball, chin on his knees, a picture of abject misery.  Sirius sighed.  Abandoning the obstinate trunk, he went over to flop on the bed next to Regulus.  They sat in silence for several long moments.

   ‘I really will write to you every week,’ Sirius said finally, just to say something.

   ‘It’s not the _same,_ though,’ Regulus said sulkily.  ‘I don’t think anything is going to be the same anymore,’ he added, cryptically.

   Sirius didn’t ask what he meant by that.  He was fairly sure he knew.  He closed his eyes against a sudden vision of the shocked, white face of the blood-covered man in the pub, and he shivered.

   Lately, it seemed as if the whole world had shifted slightly, toward the shadows.


	6. Where  Dwell the Brave at Heart

   Platform Nine and Three-Quarters was already packed, even though the train was not set to depart for over an hour.  Not one for sentimental goodbyes, Mrs Black hastily handed Sirius off to his cousin Andromeda, pausing only to lean down and hiss ‘Behave,’ in his ear, before marching away, dragging Regulus with her.  Sirius watched them go, ready to grin and wave at his brother when he looked back.

   But he didn’t.

   ‘So, cousin, how was your summer?’ Andromeda asked, distractedly.  She seemed to be searching for someone in the crowd.

   ‘Oh, nothing special,’ Sirius said, nonchalantly.  ‘My robes tried to eat me; your big sister abandoned us in Diagon Alley; I think I may have witnessed the aftermath of a really bloody murder, and I might be a suicidal sleepwalker.  Or somebody wants to murder me, too, but they’re kind of bad at it. You know, the usual,’ he shrugged.

   ‘That’s good,’ Andromeda muttered vaguely, plainly not paying Sirius a bit of attention (at least, he hoped she wasn’t. She was supposed to be the _nice_ cousin).

   ‘There she is!’ Andromeda exclaimed.  ‘Cissy! Over here!’  She waved her arms to get her younger sister’s attention.

   Narcissa appeared to be ignoring her.  She was hanging on the arm of a tall wizard with slick-looking blond hair, gazing up at him with a nauseating look of adoration.  Well, at least _Sirius_ found it nauseating.  The blond bloke seemed like he might be enjoying it, which somehow made it even worse.

   Andromeda muttered in irritation, and rummaged through her bag for something.  She came up with a small book bound in shiny emerald dragon-hide, which she held patiently over her head, waiting for her sister to look up.  When she finally did, the look on her face was priceless.

   Narcissa shot through the crowd and snatched the book from her sister’s hand.  ‘What are _you_ doing with _my_ diary?’ she snarled.

   ‘Oh, not much,’ Andromeda shrugged.  _‘Yet._ I imagine that _Lucius_ would be very interested in what you wrote on page forty-seven. Does he _know_ that you-’

   ‘Stop!’ Narcissa shrieked.

   Andromeda smirked at her sister, then turned to Sirius.  ‘Listen, cousin, I’ve got to meet... someone, so Cissy’s going to take care of you, okay?’

   ‘I can take care of _myself,’_ Sirius protested. Really, he was eleven, not a toddler.

   Andromeda pretended not to hear him.

   ‘We can sit together after the Sorting, and I’ll fill you in on everyone in the house,’ she promised, patting him on the head, before she darted away.

   ‘Well, come on then,’ Narcissa grumbled.  She tucked her diary deep into her bag, while shooting him a look of warning.  As if he’d want to read about what boys she had snogged, or whatever inane drivel she had written in there, he thought in disgust.

   ‘Do you need someone to help with your trunk?’ she asked him, which Sirius thought was unusually thoughtful for her, until he noticed that she was eying the blond wizard as she said it.  She was clearly looking for an excuse to speak to him again.

   Sirius shook his head.  His mother had bewitched the trunk to walk by itself, probably so she wouldn’t have to help him carry it to the station. As he followed Narcissa onto the train, it scuttled after him on clawed wooden feet, like an extremely creepy pet.  He could only hope it would not bite.

 

                                                                                                        * * *

Sirius was miserable. He was surrounded by a screeching swarm of Slytherin sixth-year girls, all of whom kept pinching his cheeks, or stroking his hair, and cooing things like ‘Well, aren’t you a little heartbreaker!’

   One of them, a squat, greasy-haired girl with hard, stubby fingers, pinched much more brutally than the others (and not just the cheeks on his face). Sirius found himself moving all over the train compartment to get away from her.

  ‘Knock it off, Carrow!’ Narcissa called, when she finally noticed that the girl had him backed up against the compartment door. ‘He’s a first year; he isn’t _blind.’_

  ‘ _Oooooooh!’_ someone gasped, as Carrow furiously turned and drew her wand, advancing on his cousin.

   Narcissa faced her down with a look of disdain.

  ‘Not even going to try to defend yourself, Black?’  Carrow taunted her.

  Narcissa only smiled serenely, looking at something that was just over Sirius’s head.  A split second later, the door he was leaning against slid open and he nearly toppled out into the corridor as someone brushed past him into the compartment; it was the wizard his cousin had been fawning over on the platform.

  ‘Is there a problem here, ladies?’ he enquired silkily.

   ‘What’s it to you, Malfoy?’ Carrow snapped, her wand still pointed at Narcissa’s face.

   He gazed at her, narrow-eyed, but calm.

  _‘I_ am a prefect,’ he informed her coldly.  ‘And _you_ are already on academic probation. How… _unfortunate_ it would be, if you were to be expelled from Hogwarts, for dueling on the train,’ he finished in a voice that was somehow soft and hard at the same time.

   Resentfully, Carrow lowered her wand and stalked toward the door. Sirius hurriedly leapt out of her way.

   ‘Are you all right?’ Malfoy turned toward Narcissa, who instantly went all doe-eyed and simpering.

   With his cousin thus occupied, Sirius seized his chance. He silently slipped through the door and eased into the corridor. He saw Carrow’s back in the distance, heading toward the front of the train, so he made a quick break for the rear.

   The Express still hadn’t pulled out of the station, but every compartment he passed was already full to bursting.  There were no empty seats. Finally, near the very end of the train, he found a compartment with only one person in it; a small girl with red hair, who was huddled in one corner.

   'D’you mind I sit in here?’ he asked her.

   The girl turned her face toward the window, sniffling, and didn’t reply.

   Sirius shrugged, and sprawled out on the far seat.  He considered asking her if she was okay, but that was clearly a stupid question.  He decided to leave her alone. He didn’t feel much like talking either.  He wasn’t sure when it had started, but the pure happiness and excitement he’d first felt about going off to Hogwarts was slowly ebbing away, to be replaced by resignation.  He’d naively imagined that somehow, everything was going to be different, once he got away from Grimmauld Place.  Now he could see that it wouldn’t, not really. He’d still be surrounded by people like Narcissa, and Carrow and Malfoy.  People who made a sport out of coldly threatening one another. To them, treachery was as natural as breathing.  He was headed into another den of snakes, and he was going to have to watch his back there as least as much as he always had at home.

   The thought alone exhausted him.

   A whistle sounded, and the train gave a lurch, then began to roll slowly out of the station.  A few moments later, Sirius heard a dreadful commotion moving up the corridor. It sounded like the pounding footsteps of a huge, enraged beast.  Instinctively, he cringed away from the door, just as it was flung open by a breathless boy with familiar-looking, messy black hair.  He ducked inside, and soon the heavy rhythmic thumping passed by and faded toward the front of the train.

   James Potter straightened up and turned to survey the nearly empty compartment casually, as if he hadn’t just been quite obviously running for his life.

  ‘Oh, hello,’ he said, his eyes alighting on Sirius. ‘I’m James Fleamont Potter.’

  ‘I remember,’ Sirius assured him.

   ‘So…’ James grinned at him, ‘How’d that Summoning spell work out for you?’

   Despite his grim mood, Sirius grinned back.

  ‘Thanks for that, mate,’ Sirius said sincerely, ‘You really saved my arse that day.’

   James waved an arm in a dismissive gesture, as if to say don’t mention it.

  Sirius got to his feet and offered James his hand. ‘I’m Sirius. Sirius Black.’

  James looked at the hand slightly quizzically, as if puzzled by the formality, but shook it nonetheless. ‘Hey,’ he said, spying the girl in the corner, who was still staring disconsolately through the window. ‘Who’s that?’

   Sirius shrugged.

   ‘I don’t think she wants to talk,’ he warned in a low voice.

   Ignoring this, James bounded over to her.  ‘Hello,’ he said, in a loud cheerful voice. ‘I’m James Fleamont Potter.’

   She looked up and gave a tiny nod, then turned her face away again quickly.  It looked as if she had been crying.

  ‘Are you okay?’ James pressed. She jerked her head in the affirmative, but still did not speak.

   Sirius shot James an _I told you so_ look and flopped back into his seat.  James spun away from the girl, shrugging, and sprawled out on the seat across from Sirius.  They were both quiet for awhile, but it was a companionable sort of silence, as they watched the outskirts of London flash by through the windows.  As the edge of the city began to give way to open countryside and the train began to pick up speed, Sirius felt his gloomy mood starting to fade.

   He turned to James at the exact moment that James turned to him.

   ‘So who-’ Sirius started to say.

   ‘Did you-’ James began.

   They laughed.

   ‘After you,’ James said, magnanimously.

   ‘Who were you running from, earlier?’ Sirius wanted to know.  ‘It sounded like a herd of mountain trolls.’

   ‘Oh, them,’ James snickered. ‘A couple of goons - fourth, maybe fifth year, by the look of them - were making fun of my name, so I waited until they weren’t looking and tied their shoelaces together,’ he confided.

   ‘How’d they chase you if their shoes were stuck together?’ Sirius wondered.

   ‘That’s the best part!’ James crowed. ‘They took them off! And guess where they left them! On the platform!’ he howled.

  Sirius thought James seemed unreasonably complacent about the fact that a pair of shoeless, incensed, possibly gorilla-sized hooligans were searching the train for him, hellbent on retribution.  Still, the image of their abandoned shoes, sitting forlornly on the now-empty platform, was hilarious, and he couldn’t help laughing along with him. Besides, he thought, suddenly feeling better than he had all day, if the goons did find them, he’d finally get to practice his Disarming charm.

   ‘Anyway,’ James said, no longer laughing. ‘I had to do something.  See, Fleamont is my dad’s name,’ he said, in a defiant tone, as if daring Sirius to say something.

   Sirius just nodded, and motioned for him to go on.

   ‘Right, well,’  James continued.  ‘So, my dad’s a dueling champion. Last night, he told me that when he went to Hogwarts, he challenged every single person who made fun of his name, and that was how he got so good.  So I’ve got a tradition to uphold,’ he explained, with obvious pride. ‘Of course, it will be easier when I’ve actually learned how to duel,’ he added, and they both laughed again.

   The door banged open suddenly, and two snickering older boys crowded in.  Sirius tensed, but quickly relaxed when he noticed that they were both wearing shoes, and that James didn’t seem alarmed (though Sirius was already beginning to wonder if James was afraid of anything).

   ‘Hello,’ James said sunnily. ‘I’m James Fleamont Potter.’

   Both boys glanced at him briefly.  One of them mumbled an unenthusiastic hello, before they sat down and resumed their conversation.  Sirius watched with interest as they began a game of Exploding Snap.  He had never played; his mother disapproved of loud noises (unless, of course, she was the one making them).  The booming and banging and shouting were deafening in the small compartment, and Sirius thought it looked like great fun.

   The door slid open yet again, but it wasn’t vengeful thugs this time either.  It was a pallid, spindly-looking boy with tangled, greasy hair.  James started to speak, but the boy strode purposefully past them, making a beeline for the redhead in the corner.  He sat down next to her.

   ‘Oh, she’ll talk to _him,’_ James grumbled.

   Sirius could not care less who the girl chose to talk to (after his run-in with Carrow, he thought he’d had quite enough of _girls_ for one day).   At the moment, he’d much rather blow something up.  He turned to ask James if he wanted to try to get in on the card game, and saw, with annoyance, that he was preoccupied with eavesdropping on the girl’s conversation.

   The boy was saying something about wanting to be in Slytherin.

   ‘Who wants to be in _Slytherin?’_ James practically shrieked, then glanced at Sirius. ‘I’d leave, wouldn’t you?’

   Sirius shrugged, perplexed.  What did _want_ have to do with it? His whole family had been in Slytherin; it wasn’t like he had a _choice._   He said as much to James.  James looked surprised, and said that Sirius had seemed all right to him.

   ‘Well, maybe I’ll break tradition,’ Sirius agreed, but he didn’t really believe it was possible.  He pictured the family tapestry, its shining embroidered names spanning the centuries.  He was fairly certain that as long as there had been a Hogwarts, Blacks had been in Slytherin.   ‘Where would you want to go, then?’ he asked James, curiously.

   ‘Gryffindor!’ James announced. _‘Where dwell the brave at heart!_ Like my dad,’ he added, proudly.

   The greasy-haired boy snorted derisively, and Sirius jumped slightly.  He’d forgotten the kid was even there.

   ‘Got a problem with that?’ James challenged him.

   ‘No,’ sneered the boy, though he obviously did.  ‘If you’d rather be brawny than brainy…’

   Sirius studied the scrawny little git in disbelief, taking in his unwashed hair and clearly cheap, second-hand robes.  He looked like he’d be eaten _alive_ in Slytherin. ‘Where are _you_ hoping to go then,’ he drawled with disdain, doing his very best impression of Narcissa, ‘since you seem to be neither?’

   James guffawed, but the other two were not at all amused.

   ‘Come on, Severus,’ the girl sniffed, standing up.  ‘Let’s find another compartment.’

   To encourage this decision, Sirius joined James in heckling the two out the door.  As soon as it had snapped shut behind them, James turned to him.

   ‘Really?’ he asked. ‘Your whole family?’

   ‘For generations,’ Sirius confirmed glumly.  ‘I don’t even know anything about the other houses, really. As far as _they’re_ concerned, there’s only the one.’

   James’s eyes nearly popped out of his face.  ‘You don’t know _anything_ about _Godric Gryffindor?’_ he yelped.

   Before Sirius could properly respond, James was off, waxing passionate about his hero’s myriad courageous deeds and noble acts of valor.  Sirius was quite impressed; it was certainly much more interesting than anything he’d ever heard about Salazar Slytherin.  Sure, being able to talk to snakes was unique, but it didn’t sound like all that much fun.

   ‘So what about the other houses?’ Sirius wanted to know.

   ‘Oh, them,’ James said dismissively. ‘Well, Ravenclaw is for smart people…’

   ‘So Gryffindor was stupid then?’ Sirius couldn’t resist.

   ‘No!’ James howled indignantly, before noticing that Sirius was barely holding back a laugh.

   ‘Tosser,’ James muttered, but he was laughing, too. ‘He wasn’t, you know. He was brilliant at Transfiguration; created the Sorting Hat and everything.’

   ‘Yes, yes,’ said Sirius, feigning impatience. ‘All hail the mighty Godric Gryffindor.’

   James aimed a friendly kick at him. ‘As I was saying,’ he went on. ‘Ravenclaws are smart, but it’s not _just_ that. They… think learning is more important than anything else, I guess.’

   ‘So... they’re all swots?’

   ‘Pretty much,’ James confirmed. ‘And Hufflepuffs are...I dunno, exactly. Patient? Loyal? Hardworking? Something like that.’

   ‘I bet _their_ parties are loads of fun,’ Sirius commented, dryly.

   James snorted. ‘I’m starving,’ he declared, rubbing his stomach dramatically. ‘Wonder where the trolley is.’

   At Sirius’s quizzical look, he added ‘There’s a food trolley you can buy sweets and stuff from. My dad says it comes round after the train leaves the city.’

   Sirius felt his own stomach roll over at the mention of sweets. Ignoring it, he theorized that the trolley probably started from the front of the train.

   ‘And we’re all the way at the end,’ James sighed mournfully. ‘Hey!’ he brightened, ‘Fancy going to look for it?’

   Sirius considered.  His cousin had probably noticed he was missing, by now.  She would be looking for him.  And then there were the shoeless goons who were undoubtedly lying in wait for James somewhere. Not to mention Carrow, and her hard, grabby hands.  Did he want to leave the relative safety of the compartment and go traipsing up the corridor?  He looked at James, whose hazel eyes were bright with anticipation.

   ‘Yeah,’ Sirius grinned. ‘Let’s go.’

   Despite Sirius’s secret misgivings, they were not ambushed as they stepped into the corridor.  They strolled along, unmolested, past compartments full of students laughing, talking, reading (‘Ravenclaws,’ nodded James knowingly),  and playing Gobstones or Exploding Snap.  In one compartment, someone had a radio, and a group of witches wearing Hufflepuff colors were all dancing rather wildly.

   Sirius was forced to reconsider his crack about their parties.

   ‘Maybe it takes _patience_ to plan a really good party,’ James suggested, smirking.

   Sirius swallowed his snarky comeback as he realized they were about to pass the compartment he’d escaped from earlier.  He elbowed James, warning him to keep quiet, then bent nearly double in order to sneak past the window unseen.  James followed his lead without question, though he looked mystified.

  ‘My cousin was probably in there,’ he explained, when they were safely away.  ‘And… other people I’d rather avoid,’  Briefly he outlined his harrowing experience with the squealing Slytherin girls, and Carrow’s questing fingers.

  ‘So we also need to watch out for this bum-pinching troll woman?’  James looked almost gleeful at the thought.

   ‘Unless you want her reaching under your robes,’  Sirius said darkly, grimacing at the memory.

   ‘I’m not even _wearing_ robes yet,’ James pointed out.  ‘Which reminds me. I ought to find my trunk and change.’

   Sirius realized that most of the students he had seen were dressed in Muggle-style clothing, much like James’s plain shirt and trousers.

   ‘Why not just wear the robes in the first place?’ he asked James, reasonably.  ‘Why go through all the trouble to change on the train?’

   James looked at him in amazement.  ‘How do you _not know_ about the Statute of Secrecy?’ he demanded.

   ‘I do,’ Sirius retorted.  ‘Well, not all that much,” he admitted, after thinking about it for a moment.

   James explained that in situations where wizards had to mix with Muggles (such as when one was _walking through a Muggle train station),_ they were required to wear similar clothing, to blend in.  Sirius tried, and failed, to picture his mother dressed like a Muggle.  It was not possible.  It was like trying to imagine a cuddly manticore, or a friendly dementor.

   ‘Of course,’ James went on, ‘there are always some stuffy old pureblood families who think they’re above the law, so… oh.’  He stopped at the look on Sirius’s face.

   ‘That would be the Blacks,’ Sirius sighed, glumly.  ‘As stuffy and old and pureblooded as they come.’

   ‘Sorry, mate,’ said James, sincerely.  ‘Really. I forgot.’

   Sirius shrugged it off. If James could forget the Black family history so quickly,  perhaps he could, too. At least for a few minutes. He hoped.

   ‘Hey, look,’ he nudged James. ‘I think we found the trolley.’ Just ahead, a tiny, ancient looking witch was pushing an enormous cart laden with brightly wrapped wares through the narrow corridor.

   ‘Yes!’ James raised a fist in triumph, and dashed toward her eagerly.

   By the time Sirius caught up with him, James had amassed a ridiculously large pile of Chocolate Frogs, Fizzing Whizzbees, Jelly Slugs and… well, at least six of everything. Sirius cocked an eyebrow at the mound of sweets.

   ‘It’s not all for _now,’_ James assured him.  ‘It never hurts to have a secret stash.’

   Sirius could not refute the wisdom of this statement.  Optimistically, he decided to buy a few Frogs for later, in case his new aversion was only temporary.  It was now imperative that they locate James’s trunk; his stash was too much to comfortably carry, even between the two of them.

   ‘It was somewhere around here,’ James insisted, as they wandered in and out of what seemed like every compartment on the train.  ‘My dad helped me put it up, then we went back on the platform so I could say goodbye to mum… Aha!’ he crowed, victoriously.  ‘There it is!’

   He used a Liquorice Wand to point to the overhead rack, at a heavy-looking trunk with a large carved crest that read _Libertatem per Aequalitatem_.  Years of (incredibly boring) Latin lessons told Sirius that this translated roughly to Freedom Through Equality, which seemed to him like a much better House motto than Always Pure.

   Getting the trunk down without dropping it on anyone’s head was much easier said than done, but they managed.  Soon they were back out in the corridor, congratulating one another on a successful mission.

   ‘Well, now what?’ James wondered.

   Sirius did not answer.  He had spied Carrow sitting in the next compartment. Luckily, her back was to him.  He motioned silently for James to come and see.

   ‘It’s HER,’ he whispered.

   ‘Who?’ James whispered back.

   ‘The bum-pinching troll woman,’ Sirius muttered.

   James crowded the glass, eager for a look at her.  Unfortunately, he stumbled a bit in his excitement, and smacked into the window hard enough to leave a face print.  Six Slytherin faces swiveled toward them at the sound, and they both froze. James attempted a jaunty wave.

   No one waved back.

  The boys exchanged an uneasy look, then wordlessly, turned and ran.  They sprinted flat out down the corridor, wheezing with laughter. Sirius chanced a backward glance, to check if they were being followed.  There was nobody behind them.  Unhappily, there _was_ somebody in front of them.

    _‘Oof!’_ Sirius smashed full tilt into James’s back, who staggered into the prefect Malfoy in turn.

   ‘Well, look at that,’ Malfoy smirked down at Sirius, his eyes glittering coldly.  ‘If it isn’t our little, lost lamb.’  He blocked the corridor, looming over them with a rather menacing leer.

   ‘Hello,’ said James, sounding perfectly unconcerned.  ‘I’m James Fleamont Potter.’

   Malfoy looked down upon him with utter disdain.   ‘Detention, Potter,” he drawled, brandishing his prefect badge.

   ‘What?’ James yelped, indignantly.  ‘We’re not even at school yet!’

   ‘A new record, I suspect,’ said Malfoy smoothly.  ‘Running on the train is strictly forbidden, you see.’

   ‘Don’t we just get a warning, or something, first?’ James wanted to know.

   ‘No.’ said Malfoy shortly.  ‘And if you don’t get back to your compartment I shall make it two detentions,’ he added.

   ‘That’s not fair!’ James exclaimed.

   ‘If it’s fairness you’re after, it’s a pity you didn’t bash into a Hufflepuff prefect instead,’ Malfoy made a shooing motion. ‘Run along, now.’

   ‘But you just _said_ running was -’

   ‘It’s an expression, you witless imbecile!’ Malfoy snapped, his unruffled facade cracking.  ‘Go! NOW!’

   Smirking, James edged around him to continue down the corridor.  Sirius started to follow, but Malfoy seized the back of his robes.

   ‘Not _you,_ Black,’ he commanded.  ‘You’re coming with me.’

   James spun around and glared at Malfoy.   ‘Where are you taking him?’ he demanded.

   ‘Back to where he belongs,’ Malfoy sniffed, having regained his haughty demeanor.  ‘And that’s a second detention, Potter. Care to try for a third?’

   Furiously, James opened his mouth, but Sirius caught his eye and gave a minute shake of the head.  James scowled at Malfoy, but said nothing.

   ‘Bye,’ Sirius said with resignation, as Malfoy marched him away.

   Narcissa fussed over Sirius with feigned concern, for about three seconds, before launching herself at Malfoy and throwing her arms around him.  Sirius cringed and quickly looked away.  If they were about to start snogging, he definitely did not want to watch.  He sat down and began to stare intently through the window, as if he’d never seen the outside before (and really, he hadn’t seen much that was not in his street or in Diagon Alley).  Unfortunately, there was not very much to look at.  Night was falling, and they seemed to be travelling through a dense patch of forest.  All he could see was his own face reflected in the glass.  Beyond that, there was nothing but blackness.

   ‘I caught him running around with the Potter brat,’ he overheard Malfoy saying grimly.

  _‘A Potter!’_ Narcissa’s horrified screech seemed to split the air, and everyone on the compartment turned to stare.  Malfoy untangled himself from her, wincing, and stepped back, smoothing his gleaming hair back into place.

   ‘Have you been taught _nothing?_ ’ Narcissa rounded on Sirius.  ‘What in Merlin’s name possessed you to even _speak_ to a Potter? A blood traitor?’

   Sirius glared at his cousin, as something deep within him finally snapped.  He didn’t _care_ what family James came from, or anyone else, for that matter.  He’d sat quietly, listening dutifully, for _years,_ as his parents had foamed at the mouth about blood purity, and he DID NOT CARE.  It was stupid.  He had seen no evidence that having pure magical blood made a person superior.  He _had_ seen evidence that it made some people into absolute twats, and some of that evidence was in front of him now.

   Saying that last part out loud, in a compartment filled with fanatical blood purists, may not have been one of his best ideas, he reflected a moment later, as Malfoy advanced on him with his wand drawn.

   Sirius stood, reaching into his pocket for his own wand, and Malfoy’s cold eyes widened.

   ‘You little… _Petrificus totalus!’_   Malfoy hissed, instantly paralyzing him in a full body-bind.  ‘Now,” he leaned down until he was nose-to-nose with Sirius, ‘You listen to me,’ he snarled, as if Sirius had any choice in the matter.  ‘You may _think_ that being the heir to an ancient House means you can do whatever you like, but that won’t get you very far. Another outburst like that could end up costing you dearly.’  His tone made it abundantly clear that this was a threat, rather than a friendly bit of advice.

   Well, that, and the body-bind.

   The train was slowing down.  Still frozen in place, Sirius nearly toppled over when it lurched to a stop, unable to balance himself.  Malfoy reached out and steadied him, roughly, then propped him against the window, as if he were a forgotten umbrella or something.

  _What now,_ he wondered.  The compartment began to empty, and Narcissa and Malfoy huddled in a corner, having an intense, whispered discussion, and glancing at him every so often.  He strained mightily to overhear them, over the chatter of the disembarking students, but it was no use.  With a stab of panic he realized they could just leave him here like this, and there wasn’t a thing he could do about it.  Desperately, he fought to move something; a little toe, an eyelash, anything; but Malfoy had cast his curse well.

   At last, his captors seemed to come to an agreement.  They approached him together, each grasping one of his arms.

   ‘One day, you’ll thank me for this,’ Malfoy promised, as they dragged him from the train.  Somehow, Sirius doubted that very much.

 

    Out on the platform, a booming voice was calling ‘Firs’ years! Firs’ years, this way! Follow me, all firs’ years!’

   ‘Lucius,’ Narcissa began, sounding uncertain.

   ‘Trust me,’ Malfoy assured her.  ‘If we turn him loose now, he’ll run straight off into a boat with Merlin knows what kind of filth and riff-raff. He’s got no sense of propriety at all; he’d probably even shake hands with a mudblood!’ he spat.

   Narcissa seemed to concede, silently.

  ‘Firs’ years, last call for firs’ years!’  The voice was fading as Sirius was hauled in the opposite direction, off the end of the platform and out onto a rutted dirt path, where a long line of coaches sat waiting.  Malfoy was forced to lift the body-bind to get Sirius into the carriage; in his petrified state, he would not fit through the door.  He sat wedged tightly between his abductors, as their carriage jerked to a start and began to wobble creakily up the track.

   Narcissa was whinging about the thestrals that pulled the coaches.

   ‘I never know if I’ve stepped in their droppings,’ she complained, kicking up a slender leg, pretending to inspect her shoe, while Malfoy pretended not to stare.

   Sirius, meanwhile, was having a moment of intense revelation.  Of course thestral droppings would be invisible, too.  He’d just never thought about it before.  He had never thought much about thestrals at all, except to wonder idly what they looked like (and in the same breath, to fervently hope that he would never have to find out).

   But invisible poo!  _That_ had great potential for amusement.  If only there was a way to harvest it, without being able to see it, though he thought he might get over the trauma of seeing death pretty fast if, say, _Bellatrix_ snuffed it in front of him.  That would probably be worth it.  _Soon,_ he vowed vengefully, he would figure out how to cover every shoe Narcissa owned with great stinking _mounds_ of thestral poo.  Malfoy’s too, while he was at it.

   They were talking to him in low, urgent voices, droning on about the importance of associating with the right people, and how the world as he knew it would catastrophically implode if he failed to heed their warnings, or whatever.  He wasn’t really listening.  He’d heard this all several times before, and he hadn’t cared then, either.  He nodded absently in the appropriate places, and watched through the window as they rattled past the towering wrought iron gates.  Despite the grim faces of his unwanted companions, Sirius had to smother a grin as the coach shuddered to a stop in the shadow of the castle.

   At last, he was at Hogwarts.

   There was no time to savor the moment; Malfoy was already yanking him from the carriage and shoving him up the stone steps toward the massive oak doors, with Narcissa hurrying along behind them.  Sirius stumbled a bit on the top step, but managed to right himself with only a slight stagger.  He nearly knocked into a tall, stern-faced witch in tartan robes, with black hair pulled into a severe bun.   She gave him a sharp, quizzical look.

   ‘I’ve got a wayward first year, Professor,’ Malfoy reported, still gripping Sirius tightly by the arm.

   ‘I can see that, Mr Malfoy,’ the professor replied briskly.  ‘Why, pray tell, is he not on the boats with the rest of them?’  She peered keenly at Malfoy with a look that plainly said, _This had better be good._

   ‘He was misbehaving on the train,’ Malfoy began, and Narcissa nodded emphatically to back him up.

   ‘He was, Professor! I was supposed to be watching him and he gave me the slip, he was just running wild all over…’ she trailed off beneath the professor’s steely gaze.

   ‘And?’ the professor demanded.

   ‘Well...running in the corridors _is_ forbidden, Professor,’ Malfoy tried.  He looked as if he didn’t like the way this was going.

   ‘Do you mean to tell me,’ the professor said in a voice that suggested barely controlled fury, ‘that the two of you took it upon yourselves to interfere with one of Hogwarts most time-honored traditions, for the minor infraction of _running on the train?’_

  ‘I was simply concerned for the safety of all of the students. I thought it best-’

  ‘You did not think _at all_ , Mr Malfoy,’ she cut in icily.

   Narcissa made a small noise of protest, and the professor rounded on her.

  _‘Silence, Miss Black!’_ she thundered.  A few passing students looked over in alarm before scurrying hastily away.

   ‘As for you, Mr Malfoy,’ the professor continued, straightening her spectacles, ‘A detention, in this case, would have been the appropriate action to take.  I trust you are aware of that.  I shall be having a word with your Head of House about you overstepping your bounds as prefect.’ she warned him.  Malfoy did not look terribly concerned by this.

   ‘Unhand the boy, and take your seats in the Great Hall, the both of you,’ she commanded.  Reluctantly, Malfoy released his iron grip on Sirius, and started to move away. Narcissa, however, stayed put.

   ‘Professor,’ she spoke up, sounding determined.  ‘I was hoping to keep him with me,’ she said, as if Sirius were an overcoat or something, instead of an actual human being who was standing right next to her.  ‘He’s a Black, you see…’ she went on.  ‘He doesn’t really _need_ to be Sorted.’

   The professor’s lips thinned dangerously.  Sirius, who had seen that same look on his mother’s face far too many times, flinched instinctively, and shrank away from her. ‘Every student who walks through those doors needs to be Sorted, Miss Black,’ the professor informed her coldly.  ‘Now go and _take your seat._ I will not tell you again.’

   Narcissa fled, with Malfoy at her heels.

   ‘Now,’ the professor turned to Sirius. ‘Mr Black, is it?’

   Sirius nodded.

   ‘If you could follow me, please.’

   Obediently, Sirius trailed after her as she led the way across the Entrance Hall, past the grand marble staircase, and into a smaller, dusty chamber, where she instructed him to wait for the other first years, and left him alone.  He could hear the rumblings of conversation in the Great Hall, and hoped he wouldn’t have to wait too long; his stomach was rumbling as well.  He hadn’t been able to eat much at breakfast.  Whether it was excitement, or the after-effects of the firewhiskey, he didn’t know.  Either way, the morning meal at Grimmauld Place seemed like it had happened a lifetime ago.

   Soon, he heard the same booming voice from the train platform announcing ‘The firs’ years, Professor McGonagall,’ and he poked his head out to see what was going on.

   A mass of students was swarming into the hall, led by the largest man Sirius had ever seen.  He was easily as tall as two regular-sized men, and nearly as wide as three.  He had a wild, bushy black beard that looked as if several birds might be nesting in it.

  ‘Thank you, Hagrid,’ the professor said, just as James Potter sauntered through the doors, sopping wet and grinning.  A taller boy with slightly shaggy, light brown hair followed closely behind him, also dripping.

   ‘Another one trying to touch the Squid, Professor,’ the giant called Hagrid explained, gesturing toward James with a gargantuan hand.

   Professor McGonagall pursed her lips and sighed, muttering something that sounded like _there’s one every year,_ before blasting both boys with a drying charm that somehow made James’s hair stand up even more crazily.  She led the students over to the chamber where Sirius waited.  As they filed inside, James spotted him, and waved.

   ‘Welcome to Hogwarts,’ Professor McGonagall greeted them, once they had all squeezed in.  A few people cheered, James among them, and the professor fixed them with her no-nonsense look until they quieted down.  ‘The annual start-of-term feast will begin shortly,’ she informed them. ‘However, before you can take your seats in the Great Hall, you must be sorted into your respective houses. The Sorting Ceremony…’

   ‘Pssst! Sirius!’ James whispered urgently.  He had somehow maneuvered through the crush of bodies to end up directly behind him.  ‘What happened to you?’ he demanded. ‘Why weren’t you on the boats with us?’

   Sirius turned, and gave James a brief, quiet synopsis of his abduction by his cousin and Malfoy.

   James looked outraged. ‘They tried to stop you being Sorted?’ he cried.

   Professor McGonagall paused in her detailed explanation of the house system, and cleared her throat.  James immediately fell silent, and blinked at her innocently. She gazed sternly in their direction for a moment before resuming her speech. 

   ‘As I was saying, the ceremony will take place in just a few moments, in front of the entire school.  I expect you to behave yourselves with the utmost decorum,’ she added, flashing another look toward Sirius and James.  ‘If you will all form a queue, and follow me,’ she instructed.

   Sirius fell into line with James, and the shaggy-haired boy.

   ‘Oh, this is Remus,’ James said. ‘He dragged me out of the lake when I fell in, trying to reach that blasted squid. He’s a lot stronger than he looks.’ James added, and the boy called Remus turned very pink.  Still, he held out a hand to Sirius.

   ‘Cheers, Remus,’ he said, trying to shake hands and walk at the same time. ‘I’m Sirius Black.’

   ‘I know,’ smiled Remus. He had a soft, pleasant voice. ‘James was telling me all about your adventures on the train, before he decided to go for a swim.’

    Sirius laughed, and Remus looked rather pleased.

    A moment later, they entered the Great Hall, and all of them stopped talking to take it in. 

 It was a colossal space, with imposingly high ceilings that seemed to open onto the night sky.  There were four long tables that ran the length of the room, and a fifth one along the back wall, positioned so that the professors and the headmaster could keep an eye on things while they ate. A huge tapestry of the Hogwarts crest fluttered above the staff table, and smaller hangings depicting the individual House mascots were scattered on the other walls. The entire hall was lit by what looked like thousands of candles, floating high above the heads of the other students, and the teachers, all of whom were now staring at the new first years, expectantly.

   Professor McGonagall set  a three-legged stool in front of them, and a very ragged, pointed hat on top of that.

   ‘That was Godric Gryffindor’s own hat!’  James was whispering excitedly to anyone who would listen.  ‘The very same one!’

    _Ahem._ The hat seemed to be clearing its throat, which mystified Sirius. It didn’t _have_ a throat, did it?  He was about to ask James, the obvious expert, when the hat began to sing.

 

_Oh, I’m the Hogwarts sorting hat_

_I am not your common bonnet_

_No cap, no bowler could compose_

_Such a clever sorting sonnet_

  James snorted, and started to say something, but he was vehemently hushed by an annoyed-sounding redhead that Sirius recognized as the crying girl from the train.  James rolled his eyes at her, but he did not try to say anything else.

_...you might be a true Hufflepuff_

_Sincere and self-effacing_

_Or maybe a proud Slytherin_

_Crafty and calculating_

_Could you be a bold Gryffindor_

_Intrepid and audacious_

_Or are you a quick Ravenclaw_

_Wise and perspicacious?_

 

     ‘Perspi- _what?’_ muttered Sirius, shooting a glance at the girl with red hair. She was engrossed in the song, and not paying them any attention.

    ‘I think it’s making a joke,’  James speculated. ‘You know, using a word only a Ravenclaw could possibly know.’

     Sirius scoffed.  ‘No way that’s a real word,’ he argued.

     ‘It is,’  said Remus quietly, and they turned to him in surprise.  ‘It means _perceptive._ It’s sort of redundant, to use it after _wise,_ though.’ 

     James and Sirius gaped at him in astonishment, and he shrugged, looking embarrassed. ‘I...er, read a lot,’  he mumbled.

    ‘Obviously!’  James laughed.  ‘Guess we know where _you’re_ going!’  he joked, rather loudly.

 _‘Will you PLEASE be quiet!’_   the redhead hissed fiercely at them.  ‘This is _important!_ Our _futures_ are about to be decided, and you’re all carrying on like… like a bunch of… _blithering baboons!’_   she finished furiously.

   Only Remus looked chastened. Sirius and James immediately dissolved into ear-splitting howls of helpless laughter.  James was pounding on Sirius’s back, gasping ‘Bunch of ...blithering… baboons!’ when Professor McGonagall descended upon them in a tight-lipped fury and wrenched them apart, ordering them to opposite ends of the ragged queue of first years.

   Sirius thought she needn’t have bothered; the Sorting Hat was bound to separate the two of them permanently, in just a few moments. 

    It had been great fun to pretend, for a while, that he _wasn’t_ the heir to the Ancient and Most Noble House of Black, that he might somehow _not_ be in Slytherin. But his destiny had been laid out for him from the moment of his birth. His place in the world had been made undeniably clear, and it wasn’t studying in Ravenclaw, nor slaying dragons in Gryffindor, or...whatever it was that they did, in Hufflepuff.     

    Everyone in the hall applauded as the hat finished its song, and Sirius realized he hadn’t even been listening. _I don’t suppose it matters,_ he told himself gloomily.

    Professor McGonagall stepped up next to the stool, unfurling a roll of parchment so long that it dragged on the floor.

   ‘When I call your name,’ she announced, ‘You will sit on the stool, put on the hat, and be Sorted.’

   ‘Alderton, Daniel!’

   A short blond boy approached the stool, looking apprehensive. He sat, and Professor McGonagall settled the hat onto his rather large, round head.

  ‘HUFFLEPUFF!’ shouted the hat, after a brief pause.

   The students at the table on the far right all exploded into cheers as Alderton went to join them.

   ‘Avery, Alastair!’

   ‘SLYTHERIN!’

  The table on the left applauded. Sirius saw his cousins and Malfoy among them. 

  ‘Baxter, Samantha’ became a Gryffindor, and ‘Bellairs, Jonathan’ went to Hufflepuff, and then...

  ‘Black, Sirius!’

   The walk to the stool seemed to take him forever. He tried to swallow his sudden dread as the hat dropped down over his eyes.  He wasn’t even sure why he was nervous. He’d been preparing for this moment for ages; he knew exactly what was about to happen.

  
  


   

 

   

  
   

 

 

 


	7. One Word to End the World

 

       _Another Black,_  the hat drawled, sounding bored.   _Sorted generations of you, I have. All into the same house,_ it yawned.

      _I am NOT like my family!_  Sirius thought rebelliously, more out of reflex than anything else.

     _Oh, no?_  the hat purred, suddenly sounding much more alert.  _Hmmmm...yes….clearly, you are not.  In some ways, that is..._ it added cryptically. _Oh,_ VERY _interesting, yes, indeed!_  The hat went on like this for quite some time, muttering delightedly into his ear.

    Sirius squirmed on the stool and tried to ignore the whispering that had broken out across the hall at the delay.  He wondered, uncomfortably, if the Sorting Hat could see _everything_ that was in his head.

   _Oh, yes, Sirius Orion Black the third,_ it whispered. _Yes, indeed. Every. Little. Thing._

     Sirius cringed. 

   _For instance,_ it murmured, _I can see exactly what you fear your mother would do, should you discover that your destiny does not lie where SHE thinks it ought to._

 _I am NOT afraid of her!_ Sirius insisted furiously.

 _You are,_ the hat corrected, gently.  _You fear her, oh yes, but you will not_ _allow that fear to stop you. There’s no place for you, Sirius Black, but... **GRYFFINDOR!**_

 The hat’s last word exploded through the hall, and the world stopped.

     At least, it seemed that way to Sirius. In reality, only a handful of people seemed to grasp the crushing magnitude of that one word.

     At the Slytherin table, Andromeda’s eyes had gone wide and glassy with shock.  Narcissa looked as if she’d had a sip of rotten pumpkin juice (but then, she sort of always looked like that).  Malfoy was absently stroking his own hair, and frowning thoughtfully.  Even Carrow looked surprised, underneath her sneer.  The rest of the hall chattered on, oblivious, as Sirius slid bonelessly from the stool and pulled the hat from his head.

    ‘Off you go, Mr Black,’  Professor McGonagall murmured, giving him a discreet nudge toward the Gryffindor table.  He moved mechanically, vaguely aware of James flashing a ‘thumbs up’ gesture at him, and of his new housemates congratulating him and clapping him on the back as he sat down.

    Numb with disbelief, he barely listened as ‘Bletchley, Kenneth’, and ‘Butler, Eugenia,’ both went to Slytherin, and ‘Calloway, Alison’ became the year’s first Ravenclaw.

     _What in Merlin’s name just happened?_  he wondered, feeling thunderstruck.  He wasn’t sure what else he felt, aside from a deep, paralyzing panic, and the familiar creeping dread that always settled like lead in his stomach, whenever his mother was angry (which, of course, was most of the time).  Imagining the look on her face when she discovered what he had done _this time_ would have been funny, if the Sorting Hat hadn’t been right about at least one thing.

   He _was_ afraid of what she would do.

   If he were  _truly_ a Gryffindor, surely he wouldn’t be terrified of his own mother. Or anything else. He would be heroic and stouthearted, like Godric Gryffindor himself. Fearless, like James Potter.

   He glanced across the hall at James.  He was bouncing on his toes impatiently, looking about two seconds away from exploding with excitement.  He caught Sirius watching him and gave an exaggerated wink.  He looked so ridiculous that Sirius had to laugh, and he felt his panic easing, just a little.  After all, his mother wasn’t here _now._ Even his cousins and that busybodied wanker Malfoy couldn’t get at him, right this second (though from the looks he was getting, he was sure that they were dying to).  He could - and no doubt, _would -_  worry about all of them later; for the moment, he was safe.

  He budged up on the bench to make room for ‘Evans, Lily’, a fellow fresh Gryffindor, and saw that she was the ‘blithering bunch of baboons’ girl.  She glared at him ferociously for a moment, then folded her arms and firmly turned her back.  Sirius was not terribly bothered; he was quite used to people angrily ignoring him.  He watched with surprise as ‘Lupin, Remus’ was also sorted into Gryffindor.  He would have put gold down on Ravenclaw, for sure.  Remus, at least, did not ignore Sirius. H e sat down on his other side, offering a shy but genuine smile, before focusing attentively on Professor McGonagall.

    
   ‘Macdonald, Mary!’

  ** _GRYFFINDOR!_**

   ‘McKinnon, Marlene!’

  _**GRYFFINDOR**! _

‘Mulciber, Matthias!’

   ** _SLYTHERIN!_**

  ‘Pettigrew, Peter!’

   Instead of a house announcement, there was a very, _very_ long pause.  It lasted much longer than even Sirius’s own drawn-out sorting.  After several minutes of extremely awkward silence, a flurry of whispers swept the hall like a sudden breeze.

  ‘Wow, a real Hatstall,’  Remus breathed, next to him. He looked enthralled.

  ‘What’s a Hatstall?’  Sirius asked him.

  ‘It’s when the hat can’t decide what house you belong in right away,’  Remus explained, in a low voice. ‘If it takes more than five minutes to place someone, it’s called a Hatstall,’  he continued.

  ‘What if it can’t decide at all?’ wondered Sirius.

  ‘I… don’t think that’s ever happened,’  Remus said thoughtfully.  ‘At least, it wasn’t mentioned in _Hogwarts, A History._ There’s a whole chapter about the Sorting Ceremony.  It said that true Hatstalls are really, really rare,’ he added, before falling abruptly silent, as if he couldn’t believe he’d just talked that much.

   ‘Does… does the hat ever make mistakes, do you think?’

    Remus thought for a moment, then shook his head.  ‘If it does, it won’t admit it. No one’s ever been re-sorted,’ he revealed.

   Sirius hoped that someone would relay this information to his mother before she stormed the castle gates, demanding a do-over.

   The whispers around them were shifting into grumbles now.  There were still rather a lot of first years left to be sorted, and everyone was clearly impatient for the feast to begin.  Quite a few people were staring longingly at the empty golden platters on the tables, as if willing them to magically fill up with food.

    At last, the hat called out **GRYFFINDOR!** and the entire student body sighed with collective relief.

    The pale and pudgy Pettigrew approached the table, eyes darting around nervously, and Sirius was sure he’d never laid eyes on anyone who looked _less_ intrepid or audacious.

    Maybe, he thought, the hat had gone rogue.  No doubt it led a rather uninteresting life most of the year; perhaps it had simply gotten bored and decided it was time to shake things up.  That would certainly explain his own sorting.

   ‘Potter, James!’  was summoned, and Sirius snapped to attention.  If James Potter ended up _anywhere_ but Gryffindor, he would consider his theory confirmed.

    James swaggered up to the stool and sat down confidently.  The hat had barely touched his head ( _perhaps it’s afraid of his hair,_ thought Sirius) before it screamed  ** _GRYFFINDOR!_**

   He came bounding over to the table, grinning, and threw himself onto the bench across from Sirius and Remus.

   ‘Well done, mate!’  he whispered, loudly.  ‘I _knew_ you had it in you!’

    Sirius wasn’t sure which one of them he was talking to. Probably Remus.  He _had_ been the one to drag James out of the lake, after all.  Rescuing someone from drowning (or being possibly eaten by a massive, hungry squid) was surely at the top of the list of Gryffindor-approved behaviour.

   ‘Good thing your cousin didn’t actually manage to stop you being sorted,’  he went on, and Sirius blinked with surprise.  James had been talking to him.

   'You’d be over there with _them.’_  James glanced contemptuously over his shoulder at the the Slytherin table.  ‘So which one is she, anyway?’

   ‘The blonde with the death glare, over there next to that prefect who gave you detention,’ Sirius muttered.

   ‘You’ve got detention _already?_ ’  Remus whispered, looking scandalised.

   ‘Two, ’ James confirmed cheerfully.  ‘Before I even set foot in the school. It’s probably some kind of record,’  he added, sounding rather proud.

    Remus looked thoughtful again, and Sirius wondered if there was a chapter on detentions in _Hogwarts, A History._ If there wasn’t, there would probably be at least a footnote somewhere, by the time James Potter graduated.

    ‘She really _does_ look like she wants to kill you,’  James observed in surprise, gazing over at Narcissa again.  ‘Why would _she_ care that much about what house _you’re_ in?’

    Even if he had wanted to, Sirius had no idea how to begin explaining the elaborate politics of the House of Black to someone outside the family.  There were quite a few parts he didn’t understand himself.  He also had no desire to say out loud (especially at _this_ particular table) that the Blacks considered Gryffindor to be beneath them, and that his sorting would no doubt shame them all in a way they were bound to take extremely personally.

  He shook his head, shrugging, and pretended to be absorbed in the Sorting Ceremony.  It was winding down at last. The greasy little git from the train (Snivellus, or whoever) got his wish and went to Slytherin, and a dozen more first years were sent to their proper places before  Professor McGonagall finally rolled up her scroll of parchment and whisked the Sorting Hat and stool away.

   At the staff table, a tall, distinguished-looking wizard with a very long, luxurious silver beard got to his feet, and a respectful hush fell over the Great Hall.

  ‘Welcome, all,’  he said expansively,  ‘to a new year at Hogwarts!’

  Even Sirius knew that this must be Professor Dumbledore, for quite a lot had been said about the headmaster of Hogwarts by his mother (though none of it was flattering).

   ‘The time shall come,’  the headmaster continued, with a twinkling smile, ‘for me to bore you all silly with start-of-term notices and tedious technicalities. But first,’  he swept the billowing sleeves of his shockingly orange robes wide in a dramatic gesture, ‘Behold, our excellent feast!’

   At that, the tables _did_ magically fill with food. Everyone clapped enthusiastically, and Professor Dumbledore saluted them all smartly before he sat back down, and proceeded to fill his own plate.

  Sirius gazed dazedly at the impressive spread before him.  It seemed like all the edible things he’d ever heard of (and some he definitely had not) were laid out for the taking. It was daunting; all of his life he had been told what to eat, when to eat it, and how much.  He wasn’t sure where to even start. His companions seemed to have no such reservations. Most of them had already piled their plates high with their favourites.  James had opted to try a little bit of absolutely everything, and _his_ plate was an insane mishmash of questionable cuisine mixed in with more traditional fare.

   ‘Is that a _tentacle?’_  Sirius demanded, leaning over the table to squint at something rubbery-looking that was peeking out from under a lump of mashed potatoes.

    James unearthed it and held it up to the candlelight for inspection.

    ‘Looks like one,’  he shrugged, popping it into his mouth.  ‘Chewy. _Very_ chewy,’  he reported, with a contemplative expression.  ‘Sort of like if Drooble’s Gum was made out of fish.’

    Next to Sirius, Lily Evans shuddered delicately and pushed her plate away.

    Oblivious to this, James peered at Sirius’s still empty plate. ‘What, aren’t you eating?’ he enquired, through a mouthful of potatoes.

    Sirius shrugged.  His appetite had fled the moment the Sorting Hat had touched his head.  Still, it was probably a good idea to eat _something._ He couldn’t shake the feeling that his mother might appear at any moment, to drag him back to Grimmauld Place and lock him up in his room for eternity; he wouldn’t survive very long on the handful of Chocolate Frogs he had stashed in his pocket.  He filled his plate with whatever was closest to him, and began to eat without really tasting any of it.

     Something silvery moved in the corner of his vision, and he looked up in time to see a misty assortment of ghosts streaming straight through the back wall.  They stopped in the center of the hall and hovered amidst the floating candles, talking amongst themselves as they casually observed the feast.  

    ‘I think some of those are the house ghosts!’  Remus murmured, next to him.

    'Which one is Gryffindor's?' wondered Sirius.

   The only one _he_ knew by name, of course, was Slytherin’s ghost, the Bloody Baron.  He recognized him at once from his cousins’ descriptions, but quickly averted his gaze; the bloodstains shining on his robes and his blankly staring eyes reminded him forcefully of the distraught wizard he’d seen that night in the Leaky Cauldron.

  ‘He’s the one in the tights,’  Remus decided, after carefully studying the ghosts.  ‘Sir Nicholas de Mimsy-Porpington. He was a member of the royal court, at one point, but _Hogwarts, A History_ says he doesn’t like to talk about it.’

   Remus identified the other house ghosts - a short, round, friendly-looking one called the Fat Friar belonged to Hufflepuff, while Ravenclaw laid claim to the mysterious Grey Lady.

   ‘So who are the others then?’ Sirius asked curiously, ‘Just random dead people who really like Hogwarts?’

    Remus shook his head and admitted he didn’t know,  and they both turned back to their food.

    On the other side of the table, James had begun to grill the Pettigrew boy (Percy? Preston? Something like that), who was sitting next to him and steadily working his way through his third plate of food.

   ‘So what was the hat saying, for all that time?’  he probed, eagerly.

    ‘Er, just...you know, d-different...things,’ Pettigrew stammered, turning pink.

    ‘What _kinds_ of things though?’ James was insistent.

     ‘I... I don’t, um…’

    ‘Er, James,’  Remus spoke up, seeming to take pity on Pettigrew.  ‘It’s kind of private, what the hat says. He doesn’t even know us,’  he pointed out, in a quiet but determined voice.

    ‘Oh!’  James exclaimed.  ‘Sorry! I’m James! And that’s Remus and Sirius,’  he added, pointing across the table.

     ‘I’m Peter,’  Pettigrew told them, looking gratefully at Remus, and sounding slightly more confident. ‘And I remember you,’  he added, zeroing in on Sirius. ‘I saw you in Diagon Alley, in front of Ollivander’s, d’you remember?’

    Sirius had no recollection of ever seeing Peter anywhere before that day, but he was saved having to answer by James.

    ‘Oh, blimey!’  he burst out, suddenly.  ‘Now I remember what I was going to ask you on the train!’ he said earnestly to Sirius.

    At his puzzled look, James said  ‘Remember? We both started talking at the same time, and then I got distracted telling you about the big blokes who were chasing me?’

   ‘Why were -’  Peter began.

    James waved him off impatiently.  ‘Not important right now, Pete. Later! Anyway,’  he went on breathlessly, ‘Did you hear about the murder? It was the night _we_ were there, in Diagon Alley!’

    Sirius glanced reflexively over at the Bloody Baron.

   ‘Sort of,’  he told James. And he described what had happened that night in the Leaky Cauldron; the blood-covered wizard, the flurry of Aurors, even the angry old man with the hairy ears.

   ‘Wicked,’  James breathed, when he had finished.  ‘The Aurors actually questioned you and everything?’  He sounded impressed. ‘Did you get to see the body?’

    Sirius shook his head.

    ‘I wasn’t even sure what had happened,’  he admitted. ‘I didn’t see anything, and the Aurors never said. I didn’t know for sure someone died until you told me. I did kind of figure, though, ’ he added.  ‘There was a lot of blood…’

     ‘Yeah, well, there would be,’  James said, darkly. ‘The _Prophet_ said she was... _eviscerated._ ’  He pronounced the word carefully, as if he’d just learned it.

     ‘What’s ev- evisu ...thingy?’  Peter wondered, and Sirius was glad he’d asked. He wasn’t sure either.

     ‘Eviscerated means _disemboweled,’_  explained Remus Lupin, the walking dictionary.

     ‘What’s _that?’_  Peter wrinkled his face in confusion.

     ‘Merlin’s beard, Peter!’  James raised his voice in irritation.  ‘Her guts were ripped out of her, all right?’

     ‘Yes, _thank you,_ Potter,’   Lily Evans snapped.  ‘Honestly, could you _be_ any more disgusting? People are _trying_ to eat!’

     'Not anymore,”  muttered the girl on the other side of her, dropping her fork with a clatter and joining Lily in glaring at the boys.

      James blinked at both girls and mumbled an insincere-sounding  apology.

     ‘So, what else did the _Daily Prophet_ say?’  Sirius asked James in a low voice, once it became clear that the girls had decided to ignore them.

     ‘Well,’  James began, and the other three leaned in close in order to hear him properly.  ‘It was a witch who was murdered. She and her husband owned a clothing shop in the Alley. They sell - well, _sold,_ the shop was destroyed - muggle clothes, though, not school robes and stuff like Madame Malkin’s. It was where you could get things to wear to blend in for the Statute of Secrecy, without having to bother changing money and going into muggle London,’   he explained.

    Sirius nodded along with Remus and Peter, though he had never heard of the shop. Of course he hadn’t. He was quite certain that no member of _his_ family had ever set foot in such a place.

     ‘Anyway,’  James went on,  ‘They interviewed her husband- that must have been the man you saw, Sirius- and he said they were just closing up for the night when three people wearing masks came in the back way and attacked them.  They tortured them both for a while, and then... they killed her, right in front of him.  He fought them, the husband did, and he thought he hurt one of the killers pretty badly, but they still all got away,’  he finished solemnly.

     A heavy silence fell over their section of the table.  The remnants of food left on the plates had faded away, to be replaced by a bounty of cakes and puddings, but none of them made a move toward any of it.

    ‘So..the killers… they’re still out there?’  Peter finally asked, in a small, scared voice.

     James nodded.  ‘No one knows who they are. No one knows why they did it,’  he said gravely.

     ‘What if … what if they want to kill more people?’  Peter squeaked.  He peered around nervously, as if one of them might be sneaking up behind him at that very moment.

     ‘Well, they wouldn’t come _here,’_  James scoffed.  ‘Hogwarts has got loads of protective enchantments on it.  No killers, or... dragons or...I don’t know, _werewolves,_ could even get in. Right, Remus?’  he asked, looking at him for backup.

   _‘What?’_  Remus whipped his head up in alarm.

    ‘Doesn’t that book you kept talking about on the boat have a chapter on security?’ James pressed.

    ‘Oh.’  Remus let out an oddly shaky breath.  ‘It does, yes.’

    ‘See?’ James said comfortingly.  ‘You’re safer at Hogwarts than anywhere, Pete. Don’t even worry about it.’

    Looking immensely relieved, Peter nodded, and turned his attention toward a massive chocolate cake in the middle of the table, but just as he reached for a slice, it disappeared.  Sirius and James laughed out loud at the indignant look on his face, and the somber mood lifted.

    Up at the staff table, Professor Dumbledore had risen from his seat once more, and cleared his throat.  A hush descended upon the hall.

    ‘Now that we are all rather uncomfortably full,’  the headmaster began, smiling, ‘I have a few start-of-term announcements. First years, take note. The forest in the grounds is forbidden to all students.’

    James perked up at the word _forbidden,_ and raised his eyebrows meaningfully at Sirius.

    ‘I also must remind you all that no magic is allowed in the corridors between classes, and that Quidditch trials will be held in the second week of term.  Anyone interested in playing for their house team should contact Madam LeJeux.

   ‘And finally, I must tell you that this year, we have a fascinating new addition to our grounds.  Hogwarts has been fortunate enough to acquire a Whomping Willow, a very rare, _very violent_ tree.’  Professor Dumbledore suddenly looked quite serious.

    ‘Did he say… ’  James began, but he was quelled at once by twin venomous looks from Lily and her friend.

    ‘A Whomping Willow will attack anyone and anything that comes within range of its branches,’  the headmaster warned.  ‘The attacks are extremely brutal, and may even result in death.’  Professor Dumbledore raised his voice over the gasps and whispering that broke out over this piece of news.  ‘I urge you all to exercise the utmost caution and remain as far away from the Whomping Willow as you can,’ he finished calmly.

   ‘That’s _it?’_  James whispered, shaking his head in amazement.  ‘Just… oh right, we’ve planted a murder tree, try not to touch it?’

   Sirius shrugged.  He was thinking that Whomping Willows must be very rare indeed.  His father must not have ever heard of them; if he had, there would no doubt be several of them in the garden at Grimmauld Place.

    ‘And now, before I bid you all goodnight, let us sing the school song!’   Professor Dumbledore cried.

    The teachers seated at the table behind him all cringed. Professor McGonagall actually put her hands over her ears, and the ghosts all suddenly drifted out of the hall, as if they’d remembered urgent appointments elsewhere.

    A moment later, Sirius understood why.  The entire school began to bellow in unison, but it sounded like every single person was singing a different song.

    ‘I can’t even tell what the words are!’  Sirius shouted over the din.

    ‘It’s probably better that way!’  James shouted back, grimacing.

    Mercifully, the song was fairly short.  When it finally ended, the headmaster applauded enthusiastically into the ringing silence, and everyone else followed his lead.

   ‘That was _awful,’_  James commented.  ‘What are we clapping for?’

    ‘I don’t know about _you,_ mate,’  Sirius answered,  ‘But _I’m_ clapping because it’s over.’

    James snorted.

   ‘First years will follow your house prefects to your dormitories.’  Professor Dumbledore instructed.  ‘Now off to bed with you!’

     The Great Hall echoed with the sound of scraping benches and shuffling feet as the Gryffindor first years were herded into a line and led out of the hall by a pair of frazzled-looking prefects.  Sirius had just passed through the doors to the Entrance Hall and was turning to say something to James, when a dark figure reached out of the shadows, and seized his arm.

     ‘Hello, cousin,’  she hissed.

    ‘Gah!’ gasped Sirius, his heart practically leaping out of his chest. ‘Andy! Don’t _do_ that!’ 

    Andromeda held a finger to her lips, warningly, and tugged Sirius deeper into the darkness, peering around suspiciously.  She led him briskly down a narrow, twisting corridor, dodging several suits of armour that gleamed dully in the dim torchlight.

  ‘In here,’ she whispered, pulling him through a darkened doorway.

 _‘Lumos,’_  she muttered, and bright light flared from the tip of her wand, revealing a room that looked like the inside of a gardening shed.  Stacks of plant pots lined the walls, and the shelves were packed with pruning shears, spades, and neatly labelled jars of seed.

    ‘Look,’  she began, turning to face him.  ‘I’m sorry about what happened on the train. When Cissy told me what they did…’  she trailed off, her face darkening in anger.

   ‘Wasn’t any use, was it? I still ended up in Gryffindor,’ he shrugged, leaning against an enormous crate marked _Earmuffs,_ and trying to sound unconcerned.

    ‘About that,’ Andromeda sighed. ‘You’re _really_ going to have to watch your back.’

    Sirius snorted.  ‘Tell me something I _don’t_ know,’ he said under his breath.

   ‘I’m _serious,_ cousin _’_  she insisted.

   ‘No, _I’m_ Siri-’

    She cut him off with another impatient sigh.  ‘You need to write to Alphard,’ she instructed. ‘Tell him what’s happened.’

    Sirius gave her a questioning look.  What did his uncle have to do with his sorting, he wondered. 

    ‘He’s more open-minded than most,” Andromeda went on.  ‘And you need another ally in this family right now.  There are things going on that…’ she paused, frowning. ‘Just… do it, Sirius. Promise me.’

  _‘What_ things are going on?’ he wondered, not sure if he wanted to know the answer.

 _‘Sirius! Promise me!’_ she repeated vehemently, ignoring his question.  ‘This isn’t just about my sister and her little lapdog Malfoy!  I need to know you’re watching out for yourself!’   She gripped him by the shoulders and stared down at him with a look that was somehow both imploring and intimidating.

     ‘Okay, okay!’  he told her hastily.  ‘I promise!’

     She released her hold on him, apparently satisfied.

     ‘Gryffindor,’  she said, shaking her head, but the word was not dripping with scorn or malice the way it would have been if Narcissa or his mother had been saying it. Andromeda’s tone was soft, and he thought she almost sounded proud.

     ‘You are now _officially_ the white sheep of the Black family,’  she informed him, and tousled his hair affectionately.  Irritated, he ducked away.

    ‘You _know_ I hate it when people touch my hair,’  he grumbled.

    ‘Well,’  she smirked,   _‘You_ know I hate it when people call me _Andy_ , yet you insist upon doing it.’

    ‘Fair point, _Andy.’_  He smirked right back.

    She looked at her watch, and her smile faded.

     ‘Listen, I’ve got to go.’  she said quickly.  ‘And you’d better get up to your dorm. _Don’t_ forget to write that letter,’  she warned over her shoulder, as she started toward the door.

    ‘I won’t,’  he promised as she went out, taking the wandlight with her, and plunging him into darkness once more.

    It was only after she had gone that Sirius realized he had absolutely no idea where the Gryffindor dormitories were.

By the time he managed to cast his own _lumos_ charm (which was rather weak, but still better than stumbling around in total darkness) and make his way into the passageway, his cousin was nowhere in sight.  After a moment of hesitation, he turned to his right.  He was fairly sure that this was the way they had come in.  At least, he was sure about it at first. After creeping along the labyrinthine corridors for what seemed like a very long time, he realized with a sinking certainty that he had gone in the wrong direction.

    He contemplated trying to retrace his steps, but he had taken so many twists and turns already that he doubted he’d ever be able to make it back to where he’d started.  He could only hope that all the passageways eventually circled around to the Entrance Hall.  He needed to find the Grand Staircase; the only thing he was sure of was that his dormitory was upstairs.  Somewhere.  Whether it was up one floor, or seven, he had no clue.

   He had passed several abandoned-looking classrooms, and a room filled with more suits of armour poised for a silent battle, when he heard an odd rumbling sound through a doorway on his right.  Prickling with unease, he crept toward it and peeked inside.

 It was nothing but a portrait gallery, he realized, letting out the breath he’d been holding.  The occupants of the portraits were all asleep, and some of them were snoring loudly.  He backed out of the room and continued on.

   He passed a steep flight of stone steps that must have led down to the dungeons, and quickened his pace.  A moment later, the corridor opened up, and with vast relief he saw the pale marble of the main staircase shining ghostlike through the gloom.  He hurried toward it, and was halfway to the first floor landing when the stairs began to move beneath his feet.

  The entire staircase swung in a dizzying arc, and all he could do was cling to the balustrade and wait for it to stop.  When he finally stepped gratefully onto the landing, his legs still shaking a bit, he noted that he was now somehow several floors higher than where he’d intended to go.

     Was this the third floor? Or the fourth?

   He spun in place, wand aloft, searching for some kind of clue to tell him where he was.  The eyes of the wakeful wizards in the portraits glimmered eerily in the feeble light from his wand.  Except for them, and a statue of a very ugly lady gargoyle, the landing was deserted.

    What he really needed was a humongous sign that screamed **_GRYFFINDOR DORMITORIES THIS WAY,_** with blazing arrows to point him in the right direction.

    He heard a soft sound from somewhere below, and he froze, listening intently.  For a moment he heard nothing but the quiet rasp of his own breathing, then it came again. The scrape of shoe leather on smooth marble.  Instinctively, he extinguished his wandlight and ducked behind the gargoyle, peering out to see who was approaching.

   'What are _you_ doing out here?” he blurted in shock as the head of Remus Lupin appeared over the landing.

   Startled, Remus jumped about a foot in the air and nearly fell backward down the stairs.  He pinwheeled his arms desperately for a moment, and Sirius shot forward and seized a handful of his robes, yanking him onto the landing, where they both went down hard.

    ‘Sorry,’  he said, wincing and rubbing his elbow,  ‘I didn’t mean to scare you. I was just surprised to see you.’

  _‘You_ were surprised,’  Remus gasped, once he’d regained his breath.

   They looked at each other and burst out laughing.

   ‘Really, though,’  Sirius said as both boys struggled to their feet,  ‘Why aren’t you in the dorm already?’

    ‘I could ask you the same,’ Remus hedged.

    ‘Oh, I stopped to talk to my cousin,’  he explained nonchalantly. ‘By the time she left, everyone else had, too. I’m sort of lost,’  he admitted.

    ‘Good thing I know where Gryffindor Tower is, then,’  Remus commented.

   ‘Thank Merlin!’  Sirius groaned in relief.  ‘I was starting to think I’d be wandering around all night!’

    ‘The entrance is on the seventh floor,’  Remus informed him, turning toward the stairs.

    ‘I suppose _Hogwarts, A History_ has a map of the castle, then?’ Sirius asked as they climbed.

    Remus shook his head.

    ‘I’m not sure if there’s a map of Hogwarts _anywhere,'_ he said thoughtfully.  ‘It would be really hard to make, the way everything seems to change itself around.  The map would have to change with it, or it would be useless, wouldn’t it?’

   Sirius supposed that this was true.

   ‘So how _do_ you know where the tower is?’  he panted as they trudged up yet another flight of stairs.

    ‘I… the headmaster told me,’  Remus answered, after a brief hesitation.  ‘I had to see him about… something, after the feast.’

    ‘What?’  Sirius asked curiously, but Remus had pulled ahead, and seemed not to hear him.

    At last, they reached the seventh floor landing, both of them gasping from the effort.  ‘You do realize,’  Sirius wheezed, ‘that we’re expected to climb all those steps _every_ _day?’_

    ‘We haven’t even gotten to the tower yet,’  Remus reminded him breathlessly.

     Sirius moaned dramatically.  ‘And _our_ dormitory is probably at the top,’  he predicted mournfully.  He followed Remus as he rounded a corner, and came to a stop at the very end of a wide corridor.  It was empty except for a portrait of an enormously fat lady in a frilly pink dress. She appeared to be fast asleep.

    ‘Er, excuse me, Ma’am?’  Remus approached the portrait politely, but the only reply was a gentle snore.

     Remus looked at Sirius, nonplussed.

   ‘The entrance to the tower is behind her portrait.’  he explained.  ‘Professor Dumbledore said all I needed to do was tell her the password and she’d let me through. I don’t think he expected her to be asleep, though…’

    ‘So what’s the password?’  Sirius asked wearily.  He was suddenly completely exhausted.  

    ‘It’s _Leo Intrare,_ but…’

 _‘LEO INTRARE!’_ Sirius bellowed, leaning close to the portrait.

     The Fat Lady awoke at once, spluttering indignantly, and looking extremely cross.  ‘And what do _you_ want?’ she snapped at them.

     Remus apologized profusely for waking her, and explained that they needed to get into the tower.

     ‘Hmmph,’  she muttered grumpily.  ‘I ought to leave you out here all night. _That’ll_  teach you to interrupt my beauty sleep.’  She glared at them.

     ‘We’re really sorry- ’   Remus began, but Sirius (who had had quite enough of back-talking portraits in his lifetime) impatiently cut him off.  

 _‘Leo Intrare,’_ he repeated insistently.

     ‘Well, really!’ the Fat Lady sniffed.  ‘There’s no need to be rude about it!’

     The portrait swung forward on creaking hinges to reveal a round hole carved into the stone wall.  Sirius scrambled through it, dragging Remus after him, before he could start apologizing again.  It slammed shut behind them, quite violently, and they found themselves standing in the Gryffindor common room.  It was a large, circular room done up in the house colors of red and gold.  Sirius was much too tired to pay any attention to the details. At the moment, the common room was just one more thing between him and a bed.  Remus seemed to feel the same way, as he headed straight for the door marked _Boys’ Dormitory_ without pausing to look around.

   Yawning hugely, Sirius followed him.

    ‘Looks like you were right,’  Remus whispered, pointing at a burnished brass sign that read _Seventh Year,_ hanging on the first door they came to.

   Sirius groaned quietly as they mounted the steeply spiraling stone steps.  It seemed like _years_ had passed before they finally pushed open the door with _First Year_ inscribed upon it.  Inside were several four-poster beds with crimson velvet hangings, a school trunk resting at the foot of each one.   

    Sirius barely had time to register any of this before James Potter launched himself off his bed and flew at him like a demented owl.

   ‘Where have you _been?_ ’  he demanded, glaring accusingly.   ‘I thought you’d been abducted by Slytherins and chained up in the dungeons! I thought Pete and I were going to have to come break you out!’

    Sirius glanced over at Peter, who was sitting cross-legged on his own bed, nodding solemnly in confirmation.

   ‘What did you think happened to Remus, then? Didn’t you want to rescue him too?’Sirius wondered aloud, crossing the room to flop onto the bed closest to his trunk. He dropped his head onto the pillow with a blissful sigh.

   ‘Oh, I knew he had to go see Dumbledore,’  James shrugged.  ‘McGonagall came and fetched him right before we realized you were missing.  So… where were _you?’_

   ‘My cousin…’  he began.

 _‘I_ _knew it!’_  James exclaimed, flashing a gloating look toward Peter.  ‘How’d you get away?’ he asked eagerly.

   ‘Not _that_ cousin,’  he corrected James drowsily.  ‘The nice one. Andromeda. She just wanted to talk for a minute. Wow,’ he added, his thoughts drifting hazily. ‘This is the fluffiest, most wonderful pillow I’ve ever…’

    ‘What? How many cousins do you _have?’_  James interrupted.

   ‘I have no idea,’  Sirius told him honestly, picturing his insane family tree.  First cousins, second cousins, third cousins once removed… there were far too many to keep them all straight.

    ‘At school right now, I mean.’  James clarified.

   ‘Just the two,’  Sirius replied, thanking Merlin that Bellatrix had already graduated.  If she were still at school, he probably _would_ be strung up in the dungeons.

   ‘Can I put on my pyjamas _now,_ James?’  Peter asked plaintively.  ‘Since we don’t have to go save Sirius from the Slytherins anymore?’

   ‘Go ahead,’  James sighed, seeming rather disappointed that his rescue mission was unnecessary.  ‘I guess we should all unpack, and whatnot,’ he added, dispiritedly.

   Reluctantly, Sirius sat up.  He felt about as excited about unpacking his trunk as James had sounded, but he also didn’t want to sleep in his stiff, uncomfortably tailored robes. He yawned, stretched,  and forced himself off the bed.  Of course, his trunk (which, with its dark serpentine carvings, looked ridiculously out of place in the cheerful Gryffindor dorm) did not want to open. He pushed and pulled, and tugged and twisted at the latch, but it would not budge.  His mother must have charmed it to open only with a password.

   He glanced quickly around the room.  Peter had just disappeared through a door that must have led into the bathroom; Remus was carefully arranging books on the shelf next to his bed, and James was gazing contemplatively at the massive pile of sweets he’d bought on the Hogwarts Express.

   Leaning close to the trunk, Sirius whispered  ‘ _Toujours Pur’_  as quietly as he could.  He sighed with relief as the lid sprang open.  Knowing his mother, the password could have been much, much worse.  At least he hadn’t been forced to say something like _‘death to mudbloods’_ out loud.  He pulled out his school books and set them on his own shelf, along with anything else he thought he might need in the next couple of days (the less he had to open the stupid trunk, the better), then changed into his nightclothes and slammed the trunk lid with a satisfying thump.  James looked up at the sound, and his expression froze.

   ‘What in Merlin’s name are you wearing, mate?’  he asked in astonishment.

   ‘Pyjamas, obviously,’  Sirius replied, rolling his eyes, before he noticed that the other boys were clad in what were probably muggle-style pyjamas; loose fitting, matching shirts and trousers.  His were more like a long sort of nightshirt. A very fussy, ruffled nightshirt, not unlike the Fat Lady’s dress (though thankfully, not pink).

  ‘Yeah, but it looks like you stole them from your grandmother!’  James exclaimed.  ‘Is that a _monogram?’_  he demanded, bouncing up from his bed and coming closer to squint at the stitching on the pocket.

    ‘What’s it say? I can’t read it; it’s too _fancy.’_ James snickered.

     Sirius sighed.  So much for trying to not look like a giant, posh wanker.

    ‘It’s just my initials,’  he muttered.  ‘S.O.B.’

    Across the room, Remus gave a shocked laugh.  ‘Your initials are S.O.B.? _Really?_ Your _parents_ gave you _those_ initials _?’_

    ‘Yeah… Sirius Orion Black.  So?’

    Still looking amused, Remus informed him that _S.O.B._ also stood for something else.

   ‘So… what is it?’  Sirius wondered.

   ‘It’s... not very nice,’ Remus warned them.

   ‘Tell us anyway,’ James suggested.

   ‘Er, it stands for… _son of a bitch,’_ Remus revealed.

    James looked outraged.  ‘Did you just insult his _mother?’_ he demanded.

    ‘I… what? _No!’_  The smile slid from his face, to be replaced by a look of abject horror.   ‘It’s just an expression! I didn’t mean _your_ actual mother!’  Remus insisted.

    ‘Son... of... a... bitch. Huh.’  Sirius said slowly, into a very tense silence.

    And then he began to laugh, harder than he ever had in his life.  He laughed as if it were the most hilarious thing he had ever heard.  Because it _was._ It really, really was.

   ‘Son… son of a bitch!’ he gasped, through helpless, nearly hysterical howls.  He laughed so hard his legs gave out, and he sank to his knees on the stone floor.   ‘It’s perfect,’ he wheezed, ‘ _perfect_ … because I’m the… _dog star_ ,’ he panted, ‘and she’s… she’s a… she’s…’  He rolled on the floor, cackling maniacally.

  ‘D’ you think he’s having a fit or something?’  Sirius heard James saying, through his violent convulsions of hilarity.

  ‘Maybe we ought to get help,’  Peter suggested.

   Sirius clutched at his stomach and fought to regain control of himself.  It was starting to _hurt,_ as if his sides were actually splitting.  After a moment, he managed to sit up, slightly calmer, but still chuckling.

   ‘I’m all right,’  he assured the three troubled faces that were hovering over him, as he swiped at his streaming eyes.  None of them looked convinced.

   ‘I really am sorry,’  Remus said anxiously, as Sirius got to his feet.  ‘It’s… I guess it’s a muggle expression? I’ve seen it in muggle films, and my mum - _she’s_ a muggle- says it when someone cuts her off on the motorway. I really didn’t mean…’

   Sirius waved him off.  ‘Don’t worry about it, mate. If you knew my mother…’  he smothered the giggles that threatened to overtake him once again, and sank onto his bed, thoroughly spent.

    James looked rather disapproving, as if he didn’t think mothers ought to be spoken about in that way.  Well, perhaps _Mrs. Potter_ was a saint (and having known James for exactly one day, Sirius thought that she probably had to be), but he thought James might change his mind about mothers in general if he met Walburga Black.

   Not that Sirius intended to ever let _that_ happen.

    He flopped back onto his pillow gratefully, meaning to ask Remus what it was like, having a muggle mother, and what exactly _films_ and _motorways_ might be, but before he could get the words out, he was fast asleep.

  
  
  


 

 

 


	8. The Scarlet Envelope

  Sirius had pictured his first full day at Hogwarts hundreds of times, but not once, in his wildest imaginings, had he ever considered that it might begin _here,_ at the top of Gryffindor Tower.  In his first few groggy moments, he had the jumbled impression that the world was on fire. He shot off his pillow and gazed around wildly before realizing that it was only the sunlight streaming through the scarlet hangings, casting the enclosed space around his bed in a brilliant reddish glow.   

  Gryffindor red, not Slytherin green.   

  He wondered how long it would be before his Mother heard the news; _he_ certainly was not going to write and tell her.  He ought to write to Regulus, though, and warn him that a storm was brewing, worse than any they’d ever seen.  _First chance I get,_ he promised himself. Pushing his growing dread aside along with the hangings, he poked out his head and peered into the dormitory.

  ‘Good morning!’  James chirped eagerly from the next bed.  He was fully dressed, and looked bright-eyed and alert, like he’d already been up for hours .

  ‘G’morning,’  Sirius yawned and rubbed his eyes.  ‘What time is it?’

  ‘We’ve got about half an hour until breakfast,’  James informed him, as the bathroom door creaked open, and Remus came stumbling out.

  ‘Morning, Sunshine!’  James called to him.

   Remus nodded blearily to James, then turned away without speaking, and began fumbling with the books on his shelf.

   ‘Remus isn’t a morning person,’  James confided, sotto voce.  ‘It took him about six tries to figure out you have to _push_ the door to the loo, not _pull_ it.’

   ‘I can hear you, you know,’  Remus grumped at them.

   ‘Come on, get dressed,’  James urged Sirius. ‘You can help me wake Peter.’

    Sirius clambered out of bed and stretched.  ‘Hang on,’  he said, noticing the Gryffindor uniform laid out on top of his trunk.  ‘Where did _that_ come from?’  He definitely had _not_ brought it with him from Grimmauld Place.

    James shrugged. ‘I think the house elves bring them up or something. When I woke up, we all had one.’

   They both turned to look at Remus, who sighed.  ‘Uniforms for first-years are provided by the school,’  he confirmed, still sounding a bit grouchy.

   _That’s lucky,_ Sirius thought, as he began to dress.  The only thing he had been given in the way of uniform was his father’s moth-eaten old Slytherin necktie, which he planned to drop into a bin at his earliest opportunity.

   'Makes sense,’  James nodded sagely.  ‘Since no one knows what colors to buy until they’ve been sorted.’

   Sirius paused in the act of pulling on his trousers and raised an eyebrow at James’s shelf, where the red and gold scarf, knit cap, mock Quidditch jersey, roaring stuffed lion, _and_ miniature replica of Godric Gryffindor’s sword that he’d unpacked the night before were all on prominent display.

  James followed his gaze, grinning.  ‘I know,’ he said. ‘Would’ve been awkward if I’d ended up in Hufflepuff.’

  Sirius snorted, and ducked into the bathroom.  It was small, but functional. There were two toilets in separate cubicles, two shower stalls, and three sinks in a row beneath the mirror.  He spent quite a long time staring at his reflection and trying to knot his tie.  Whenever he’d had to wear one in the past, a house-elf had done that part for him.  His clumsy knots kept coming out looking more like a hangman’s noose than anything, he thought, morbidly.  Unbidden, Andromeda’s words from the night before came rushing back to him.

_You’re really going to have to watch your back._

    Someone pounded on the door, and he jumped.

   ‘Merlin’s pants, Sirius!’ James shouted. ‘Did you drown?’

    ‘Yes!’ he called back. ‘I’m a ghost now! Wooooo!’ he moaned, trying to sound spooky, but only managing to sound like a very sick owl.

    Through the door, he heard James groan.  After a moment, he gave up on the tie, and exited the bathroom with it loosely draped around his neck.  James and Remus were both hovering over Peter’s bed, attempting to wake him.

    ‘Just five more minutes,’  Peter mumbled, into his pillow.

    ‘You said that five minutes ago!’  James reminded him, as he began vigorously shaking one of the bedposts.  ‘C’mon, Pete! Rise and shine!’ he sang. Peter did not stir.

    ‘Why don’t we just let him sleep if he wants to?’  Sirius asked reasonably.

    James looked scandalised.  'We can’t leave a man behind!’  he exclaimed.

   ‘Well, if he doesn’t get up in the next three minutes, we’re _all_ going to be late,”  Remus pointed out.

   ‘We go together,’  James insisted stubbornly.  ‘Or not at all.’

   Peter did not respond to pleading, threats to dump him in the lake, or all three boys jumping on his bed.  However, when James began to wistfully describe all the food they were about to miss eating at breakfast, Peter’s eyes popped open.

 ‘Pancakes?’ he said, hopefully.

 

  Thirty minutes later, they walked into the Great Hall. Considering that they had gotten lost about six times on their way downstairs, _after_ having to wait for pokey Peter to get himself dressed and find all his school books, Sirius counted this as a major triumph.  His tie was even knotted properly, thanks to Remus.

  He was also pleased to note that both Narcissa _and_ Malfoy seemed to be absent from the Slytherin table.  He waved to Andromeda as he sat down across from Remus.

   ‘We’re the first ones from our year in Gryffindor to make it down,’  James observed smugly, as he heaved himself onto the bench next to Sirius.  ‘Look, none of the girls are here yet.’

  ‘Or they’ve been and gone,’  suggested Remus, reaching for a platter of toast.

   ‘We’re not _that_ late,’  James scoffed.  ‘Besides, you know it takes girls _forever_ to get ready to do _anything.’_

   Across the table, Remus suddenly widened his eyes, and shook his head slightly at James.

   ‘They’re probably all still up there fixing their hair, or whatever,’  James continued, obliviously.

   ‘Maybe _you_ should have fixed _your_ hair this morning, Potter!’   An irate voice snapped from behind Sirius and James.  ‘It looks like a nest of diseased hedgehogs.’

   James blinked, and turned around. ‘Er, good morning, Evans,’  he said awkwardly, as Lily marched past them to the far end of the table.

 _‘Diseased hedgehogs,’_  Sirius snickered, scooping scrambled eggs onto his plate. The girl definitely had a way with words.

    ‘I _tried_ to tell you,’ Remus sighed.

   James shrugged, and ran a hand through his hair, which only made it look more unkempt. ‘It’s the Potter curse,’  he lamented, as he poured himself a goblet of pumpkin juice.

   ‘What, hacking off Evans?’  Sirius cracked.

  ‘Well, that too, I guess,’  James muttered.  ‘I mean, the hair. My father’s is exactly the same.  And _he_ invented Sleekeazy’s.’

   ‘The hair potion?’  Sirius asked, incredulously. His cousins used that stuff by the bucketful.

    James nodded proudly.

   ‘Er, no offense, mate… but why don’t you, you know, _use_ it?’  Sirius wanted to know.

  ‘It doesn’t _work_ on Potter hair,’  James informed them all.  ‘The only reason it even exists is because my mother insisted he do something about his hair before their wedding. His test subjects all went mad for it, said it was the best hair potion they’d ever tried, but it didn’t make a  bit of difference to dad’s hair.  Mind you, it _did_ make him a fortune, so mum can’t complain.  She still does, though,’  he added, fondly.

  ‘I think your hair looks fine,’  Peter told James, looking up from his second plate.

   ‘Thanks, Pete,’ he said offhandedly.  ‘Say, I think they’re handing out timetables!’  he nodded to the group of prefects making their way down the rows, carrying stacks of parchment.

  ‘I wonder what class we’ll have first,’  Remus mused, sounding - in Sirius’s opinion - a bit too indecently excited about schoolwork.

  Suddenly, a small girl at the Hufflepuff table let out a terrified shriek, and pointed up at the ceiling as a swarm of post owls swooped in, blotting out the sunlight from the enchanted ceiling like a dark cloud.  Sirius ducked as a massive eagle owl glided inches over his head and dropped a package in front of James, who tore into it eagerly.

  ‘Oh, good. Just what you need,’  Sirius said dryly, peering over his shoulder.  ‘More sweets.’

   Remus got a letter, which he folded carefully and put into his pocket, and Peter got a small box of homemade biscuits that he offered around the table.

  Sirius accepted one, and promptly dropped it in shock as yet another owl dive-bombed toward him.  This one he recognized, and his stomach clenched with foreboding.  It was his father’s owl, Erebus, and there was an ominously smouldering scarlet envelope clutched within his talons.  He dropped it into Sirius’s scrambled eggs and soared away.

  ‘Look out!’ someone shouted. ‘It’s a Howler!’

   Several students dashed out of the Hall with their hands covering their ears.  One of them was the prefect who’d been about to hand them all their class schedules; he simply flung the pages at them as he ran, and they fluttered down over the table, dropping into jam pots and jugs of pumpkin juice.  Sirius did not bother to run.  He knew how Howlers worked; for the recipient, there could be no escape.

  He might as well get it over with.  ‘You don’t have to stay,’ he said dully to the other three as he gingerly picked up the smoking envelope.

  James and Remus did not move. Peter shifted slightly in his seat, as if to get up, only to be stared down fiercely by James.

  Sirius took a deep breath as he slit open the seal with his butter knife, and a terrible screaming rent the air.

 **_‘SCOURGE OF MY FLESH!’_ **   Walburga Black’s magically magnified voice shrieked madly across the Great Hall, and everyone turned to stare.  ' ** _PERVERTER OF PURITY; ABOMINATION OF MY LOINS!  YOU HAVE BROUGHT EVERLASTING SHAME UPON THIS GREAT AND NOBLE HOUSE!  I CURSE THE DAY YOU WERE BORN!  BLASPHEMER! MUD-SUCKING MAGGOT!  PLAGUE OF FILTH!  YOU ARE NO SON OF MINE!’_ ** 

   After this deafening proclamation, the Howler mercifully burst into flames, and a ringing silence fell.  It seemed like every person in the hall was gaping at him in open-mouthed shock. He didn’t blame them; this probably didn’t happen at breakfast every day. 

   _‘Mud-sucking maggot_ is a new one,’  he finally commented, just to break the tension.  ‘She’s definitely used _scourge of my flesh_ before, though.’

   ‘Was...was that…’ James stammered, looking gobsmacked.

   ‘My mother, yes,’ Sirius said grimly.

    ‘Blimey,’ James shook his head. ‘I guess you were right, mate. She really is a... _Ouch!’_ he broke off, scowling at Remus. ‘Did you just _kick_ me?’  He leaned down to rub his shin.

     Around them, the buzz of chatter and the clinking of silver on china had slowly resumed, though quite a few people were still staring.  Remus cleared his throat.  ‘We should, um… get to class,’ he suggested, plucking a timetable from the butter dish and studying it with unnecessary intensity.  ‘We’ve got Charms, first,’ he announced.

    ‘I’m still eating!’ protested Peter, snaking an arm protectively around what had to be his fourth helping already.  ‘And Sirius hasn’t even touched _his_ breakfast!’

   Sirius looked down at his plate of congealing eggs, now grotesquely seasoned with the charred remains of the Howler, and pushed it away with distaste.  ‘I’m not hungry,’ he frowned.  ‘Let’s go.’

   ‘You heard him, Peter,’ James said firmly. ‘We’re done here.’

   Peter sighed, but managed to sneak in one last bite before the four of them stood and trooped out of the hall, together.

 

   After the gut-wrenching excitement of a morning Howler, their Charms class almost seemed like a letdown, though it was interesting enough, Sirius supposed.  He certainly preferred it to his home schooling (which had been mostly taught by his mother, after the tutors she’d hired kept quitting, for some reason).  History of Magic, on the other hand, was definitely a disappointment.  The only notable thing about the lesson was that the teacher, Professor Binns, happened to be dead.  Legend had it that one day, he’d woken up as a ghost, and simply hadn’t noticed.

  ‘He’s going to turn the whole lot of _us_ into ghosts, as well,’ James griped, as they fled the classroom gratefully.  ‘Another lesson like _that,_ and we’ll die of boredom!’

  Even Remus, who seemed to like a lot of boring things, nodded in agreement.

  ‘What’s next?’ wondered James, who had already lost his timetable.

  ‘Lunch,’ replied Remus, who had his memorized.

  ‘Oh, good!’ exclaimed Peter. ‘I’m _starving!’_

   _‘Already?’_ James scoffed, in disbelief. ‘You ate your weight in bacon at breakfast!’

   _Which is really saying something,_ thought Sirius snarkily, immediately feeling wrong for thinking it.  It sounded like something Narcissa would say.

   ‘That was _this morning,’_  Peter informed him witheringly.  ‘It’s been _ages_ since- _AAAAUGH!’_  he screeched suddenly, leaping into the air in terror.

   ‘What? What is it?’ James demanded, looking about wildly, as Sirius slid a hand into his pocket and closed his fingers around his wand.

  Silently, Peter pointed a shaking finger at a small, striped cat, which was now winding itself around Sirius’s ankles, and purring. Sirius and James howled with laughter, and even Remus cracked an unwilling grin.

  ‘A _cat,_ Pete?’’ James choked out. ‘A little old _kitty_ _cat_ made you scream like a bloody banshee?’

  ‘It… it just startled me,’ muttered Peter, shamefaced.  ‘It ran right over my foot! And I just…’ he shuddered.  ‘I don’t like cats, is all.’

   The cat in question seemed to have grown tired of them already.  It stepped daintily away from Sirius, and strutted off down the corridor, toward the Great Hall.  They trailed after it, Peter keeping his distance, and James and Sirius still cackling.  They spent most of the meal taking the piss out of him, as he ate in rather stony silence.

   ‘Why so quiet, Pete?’ James asked innocently. ‘ Cat got your tongue?’

   Sirius groaned through his laughter, and neither he nor James noticed that Peter looked as if he might burst into tears.

   ‘We’ve got Potions next,’ Remus spoke up, as if to change the subject.  ‘I wonder what that will be like.’

    James lit up at once, abruptly leaping to his feet.  ‘If we leave now, we’ll have time to explore the dungeons!’ he cried enthusiastically.  ‘Let’s go!’

    The rest of them stood, except for Peter.  He sat resolutely at the table, staring straight ahead.

    ‘Well, come on,’ James commanded him, impatiently.

    Peter folded his arms and shook his head.

    James glanced at Sirius, then Remus, nonplussed.

    ‘Maybe you should apologize,’ suggested Remus quietly.

    ‘For what, the cat thing?’ James seemed genuinely puzzled. ‘But we were just joking around!’

    ‘I don’t think Peter thought it was funny,’ Remus murmured.

    ‘Aw, c’mon, Pete,’ James wheedled. ‘It was just a bit of fun. We didn’t mean anything by it, did we, Sirius?’

   Sirius shook his head. ‘Not at all,” he assured Peter, though privately he thought Peter ought to toughen up a little.  It had only been a bit of teasing, after all.

    ‘Here,’ James rifled through his robes and came up with a rather mashed-looking Chocolate Frog, which he held out to Peter with great ceremony.  ‘A token of apology,’ he intoned grandly.

   Peter accepted the Frog with a reluctant smile.

  ‘Truce?’ asked James.

   ‘Truce.’ agreed Peter, heaving himself up from the table.

  Sirius did not particularly relish the idea of poking around in such obvious Slytherin territory, but he trailed along as they navigated the sharp twists of the spiral staircase that led down to the dungeons of Hogwarts.  The dank, winding corridors were appropriately spooky and serpentine, and the boys’ scuffling footsteps echoed off the dripping walls.

  Peter wrinkled his nose.  ‘It _stinks_ down here,’ he complained, as they splashed gingerly through a murky pool of standing water.

    It _did_ smell rather horrible.  It was the overpowering mustiness of a place that has not seen the sunlight for several centuries.  Patches of ancient-looking slime crept over the stones, and it seemed as if they were tunneling deeper into the bowels of the castle.

   ‘Er, James,’ Remus spoke up hesitantly.  ‘Are you sure we’re going the right way?’

   ‘What?’  James looked at him in astonishment.  ‘I was following _you!’_

   Sirius groaned, and his breath came out as a small cloud in the clammy dungeon air.  He shivered, and briskly rubbed his hands together, to try and warm them.

   ‘Are we _lost?’_ Peter asked in alarm.

   ‘Nah,’ James scoffed.  ‘We’re _exploring,_ remember?’

   ‘But we don’t know where we are,’ Remus added.

   ‘Course we do,” James contended.  ‘We’re right _here.’_ He gestured expansively around them.

‘I mean, we don’t know how to get where we need to go _from_ here,’ clarified Remus, with a touch of impatience.

   James seemed to dismiss this as a minor technicality, and strode ahead confidently, down the rather ominously narrowing passageway.  Over his shoulder, he exhorted the others to get into the spirit of the adventure.   ‘Would _Godric Gryffindor_ be put off by a bit of smelly slime?’ he demanded.  ‘Would the valiant Sir Cadogon have ever defeated the fearsome Wyvern of Wye if-’

  ‘The Wyvern _ate_ him!’ interrupted Peter.

    _‘And_ his horse,’ added Remus.  ‘Twice, I think.’

    Sirius had no idea what any of them were talking about.

   James was incredulous.  ‘What stories did _you_ hear, growing up, then?’

   Sirius shrugged.  Most of the ‘stories’ his mother had told were scarcely more than thinly veiled, fairly gruesome threats describing the awful fates that could befall disobedient little wizard children.  A few of them would probably come true, he reflected,  once she got her hands on him.

  ‘I made our house elf read me _that_ one every night until I was about eight,’ James was reminiscing, fondly.  ‘Good old Nettie… she did all the voices and everything, just right.’

  Sirius tried to picture Kreacher reading _him_ a bedtime story, and found it impossible.  He wasn’t even sure if Kreacher _could_ read.  As far as he knew, the Black family servants were not taught to read or write.

 

  The corridor had gotten so cramped and narrow that they were now inching along single file.  The feebly guttering torches had grown fewer and farther between, and the dank, inky darkness seemed so heavy that Sirius swore he could almost _feel_ it on his skin.

  ‘I think we ought to turn back,’  Remus fretted. ‘We’ll be late to class.’

  ‘Relax, Remus!’ James reassured him, as they edged around a sharp bend.  ‘Look, there’s a light up ahead. It can’t be far now!’

   Sirius squinted into the gloom.  There _was_ a light.  It was an odd kind of light, though; more of a shifting, silvery mist than the friendly flicker of a welcoming torch.

   _Clink. Clink. Scrape._   _Clink.  Clank.  Scraaaape._ A sound like rusty, rattling chains echoed down the passageway.

‘W- What is _that?’_ quavered Peter, in a low, dread-filled voice.

   ‘Who goes there?’ James called stoutly, but the figure advancing upon them did not call back.  The only reply was the steady clank of the chains, slowly coming closer.

   ‘The Bloody Baron,’ Sirius whispered, recognizing the grisly splatters of gore on the ghostly robes, and the ghastly, empty-eyed stare.

   ‘The _what?’_ squeaked Peter.

   ‘Slytherin’s house ghost,’ said Sirius and Remus together.

   ‘Wicked!’  James exclaimed, and trotted enthusiastically toward the ghost.

   ‘Hello,’ he said, as if he introduced himself to centuries-dead, blood-drenched spirits every day.  ‘I’m James Fleamont Potter.  I’d shake your hand, but ghosts can’t do that, right?  Anyway, nice to meet y-  Eeeeughh!’

  James shuddered, as the Bloody Baron simply floated through him as if he wasn’t there, and continued down the passageway, rattling his chains in an irritated manner.

  Sirius pressed his back hard against the mossy dungeon wall in an attempt to keep out of the way, but the corridor was much too cramped, and he experienced a horrible freezing sensation as the Baron plunged straight through _him,_ as well.   An appalled squeal from Peter and a strangled yelp from Remus a moment later told him that they hadn’t managed to move enough either.

   ‘All right, Peter? Remus?’ Sirius asked, in a voice that shook a bit too much for his liking.

   ‘I… honestly don’t know,’ came Remus’s voice from the near total darkness, for the Baron had taken his otherworldly glow with him when he rounded the corner. ‘Peter?’

   Peter let out a high-pitched chirp that sounded like a sad baby bird.  Sirius decided that meant he was fine.

  After pausing for a moment to collect himself, he peeled away from the muck-covered stones, grimacing, and moved to catch up to James.  He could hear the others scuffling hurriedly along behind him, keen to put as much distance as possible between themselves and the Bloody Baron’s soulless, icy touch.

  James, if anything, seemed to be invigorated by his ectoplasmic immersion.

  ‘Onward, men!’ he cried,  ‘Victory lies ahead, and in our noble hearts we shall-   _OOF!’_  he grunted suddenly, as he ran head on into a wall that had loomed unexpectedly out of the deep shadows.

  They had reached a dead end.

  ‘Well… _that’s_ not good,’ James declared, rubbing his nose, as they all surveyed the blank end of the passageway before them.

  ‘W- what now?’ chattered Peter. Whether it was from nerves, or the cold, Sirius couldn’t tell. Probably a bit of both.

   ‘Turn back, I guess,” sighed James, sounding crushed.

  Partly because he could still hear chains clanking threateningly in the distance, but mostly because he could not stand the defeat in James’s voice, Sirius aimed a frustrated kick at the stupid, sludge-covered wall.  As his foot connected with the stone, two things happened.  He felt a blinding flash of pain in his big toe, and- with a terrific, grating groan, the wall began to move.  All four of them froze, and simply stared in silent astonishment as the wall gave way.

   ‘Brilliant,’ James breathed.  _‘A secret passageway!_ Absolutely bloody _brilliant.’_

 

   A moment later, they were squeezing through a narrow gap into a dimly lit chamber.  It looked almost like a library, except there were no books on the shelves.  Instead, they were crowded with glass jars of various shapes and sizes.  Most of them just contained mundane dried herbs or roots, though there was a huge one that seemed to be filled with yellowed, poisonous-looking fangs, and a whole row of what looked like tiny, mutant animal skeletons, floating in a murky, unidentifiable liquid.

  ‘Eww,’ commented Peter, noticing them.  'What _are_ those?’

  ‘Potions ingredients, looks like,’ said James.  ‘This must be the storeroom,’ he speculated.

  ‘We’re probably not supposed to be in here,’ warned Remus.

  ‘Probably not,’ James agreed happily, tugging on the doors of a hulking cabinet in the corner.  ‘Locked,’ he reported.

   There was a sudden, loud rumbling behind them; the wall was scraping back into place, sealing itself seamlessly.  James looked gleeful.

  ‘I bet no one else even knows this is here!’ he gestured giddily at the place where the opening had been, now a perfectly ordinary blank expanse of stone.  ‘And _we_ found it on our very first day of classes!’  he crowed, slapping Sirius on the back with so much enthusiasm that he nearly fell over.

  ‘Speaking of classes,’ Remus began, looking meaningfully at them all.

  ‘Oh, all right,’ James heaved a gusty sigh, and began looking around for an exit.  Two of the room’s three doors were locked from the other side, but the third opened onto a wide stone corridor with smaller tunnels branching off of it.  

  ‘Which way?’ Sirius wondered, looking up and down the empty passage.

  ‘If that was the storeroom,’ James reasoned, glancing at the door they had just come out of,  ‘the classroom _ought_ to be right around here.’

  ‘It’s around that corner,’ Remus pointed ahead, confidently.  ‘I hear voices. Come on.’

  Sirius didn’t hear anything, but he followed along anyway, limping slightly from the throbbing in his toe.

 

   ‘What are _they_ doing here?’ cried James, at the sight of a dozen or so green-tied students milling about in front of a closed classroom door.  ‘Did you read the schedule wrong?’ he asked Remus accusingly.

 ‘Did _you_ read it at all?’ Remus countered mildly.  ‘Some of our classes are doubled up with other Houses,’ he explained patiently. ‘We’ve got Potions with Slytherin, Herbology with Hufflepuff, and Defence Against the Dark Arts with Ravenclaw.’

  ‘Must’ve been a blot of jam on that bit,’ shrugged James.

  ‘Oi, Black!’  A dark haired, vaguely familiar Slytherin boy called out to Sirius.  ‘Couldn’t make the cut, eh?’ he jeered.  ‘Disinherited yet? I heard Mummy’s not too happy!’  His housemates tittered and smirked, and Sirius thought they sounded exactly like a bunch of stuffy, self-important old ladies (thanks to his mother’s immeasurably dull Society Teas, he had met quite a few of those).

   ‘Piss off,’ he muttered, turning away.

   James, however, was not about to let it go.   ‘What did you say?’ he demanded, advancing on the boy.

  ‘What are _you_ going to do about it, _Gryffindork?’_ the boy sneered.  His fellow Slytherins all snickered sycophantically.  Among them, Sirius recognized the greasy little tosser from the train.  He was laughing the loudest of all.

    James noticed, too.  ‘You think that’s funny, do you, _Snivellus?’_ he demanded, rounding on him threateningly.

   ‘At least _I’m_ not a filthy blood traitor,’ he remarked coolly, though he was no longer laughing.

   Furious, James drew his wand.  Sirius stepped up behind him, as if to guard his back.

   ‘POTTER!’  A familiar, enraged voice screeched from down the corridor.

   Sirius swung around, startled.  He hadn’t noticed the Gryffindor girls approaching.  They were all lugging their cauldrons, and his stomach sank; he hadn’t thought to bring his own. None of them had.  Remus’s stricken look told him that he had just realized the same thing.

   ‘Drop it, Potter,’ Lily commanded angrily, gesturing to his raised wand.

   ‘Get out of it, Evans,’ James told her.

   ‘I will not!’ she fumed, dropping her cauldron with a ringing clatter and planting her hands on her hips.  ‘Leave him alone! What’s he ever done to you?’  It was apparent that she had either not heard the blood traitor comment, or did not know what it meant.

   ‘Oooh, Snape’s got a _girlfriend,’_  a tall, blonde Slytherin girl whispered to the girl beside her, though loudly enough for most of them to hear.

    The rest of the Slytherin girls giggled and Snape flushed, reaching for his own wand.

    ‘Sev, no!’  Lily begged him.   ‘Potter’s not worth it!’

    James turned to look at her incredulously.  ‘But he said --’

     Just then, the classroom door burst open with a bang, and a rotund little man with an enormous belly and a very thick, walrus-like moustache blinked out at them all.

    ‘Good heavens!’ he exclaimed.  ‘Is it that time already? Well, come in, come in!’ he cried, appearing to be completely oblivious to the tense scene he’d just interrupted.

    ‘C’mon,’ Sirius murmured to James in a low voice.  ‘We can get him back later,’ he added.  _Once we’ve actually learned some good jinxes,_ he thought to himself.

    Reluctantly, James lowered his wand, though still glaring at Snape with intense dislike.  ‘This isn’t over,’ he promised, as he followed Sirius and the others into the classroom.

 

 The Potions dungeon looked a lot like the storeroom, with the obvious addition of work tables, and a blackboard.  The professor had written his name across this, but he announced himself grandly anyway, as Professor H.E.F. Slughorn.  Sirius was glad he had; his fussy, stylized signature was very hard to read.

   ‘Take a seat, take a seat, anywhere you’d like,’ Professor Slughorn urged them, and there was much shuffling and clunking as students and books and cauldrons all found their places.  The four Gryffindor boys stuck together, crowding around a single table in the back corner.

   The class had divided themselves sharply between the two houses, with the glaring exception of Lily Evans and Snape.  Lily sat defiantly next to her Slytherin friend, who was paging intensely through _One Thousand Magical Herbs and Fungi_ , and acting as if she was not there.  The professor studied the pair of them with such a shrewd expression that Sirius suspected he was probably not nearly as clueless as he seemed to be at first.

  ‘Now, then!’ Professor Slughorn clapped his hands once, to command their attention.  ‘You all know who I am, and as Head of Slytherin house, I have already met a few of you. I daresay it’s time for me to get to know the rest. When I call your name, please help me match it to your face.’  Theatrically, he unfurled a sheet of parchment and cleared his throat.

 ‘Avery, Alistair,’  he read, nodding jovially to a mousy-haired boy with a pointed nose and rather large ears.  ‘Ah, you look just like your father did when he was your age! Tell me, how is he these days?’

 ‘He’s quite well, sir.  He told me to tell you hello,’ Avery answered.

 ‘Excellent, excellent!’  Professor Slughorn beamed.  ‘He was one of my star pupils, you know, once upon a time.  I shall expect the same from you, m’boy.’ he added, in a mock-stern, avuncular tone.

  ‘Yes, sir.’ said Avery, and the professor looked back down at his list.

  ‘Baxter, Samantha,’ he called.

  ‘Here, professor.’  A Gryffindor girl in the first row raised her hand, and the professor gave her a perfunctory nod, before quickly moving on.

  ‘Aha,’ he murmured, peering keenly at the next name on the list.  ‘Black, Sirius!’ he called, expectantly.

   Sirius put up his hand.

   ‘I must say, I expected you in my house, Mr Black,’  Slughorn said, conspiratorially.  ‘Your entire family, generations of them… well, it’s a bit of a shock to see a Black in _Gryffindor,_ after all those centuries of Slytherin tradition,’ he chuckled.  ‘How on earth did you manage it?

  Sirius shrugged.  Really, what was he supposed to say?  All he had done was go where the Sorting hat had told him to go, just like everyone else.  Still, Slughorn was watching him as if he  expected some sort of explanation, and Sirius found his unblinking gaze a bit unsettling.  His eyes were a most peculiar shade of pale green, and looked as if they might glow in the dark.

   ‘I... guess it was just... time for a change, sir,’  Sirius answered finally.

   Next to him, James snorted very quietly.  The professor, meanwhile, looked intrigued.

   ‘A change, indeed!’ he murmured.  ‘Gryffindor is a fine house, of course, Mr Black.  A _very fine_ house,’ he added, raising his voice over the contemptuous scoffing that had broken out on the Slytherin side of the room at this proclamation.  James bristled at this, and attempted to glare at each and every Slytherin, all at once.

   ‘Settle down, now.  Settle down,’ Slughorn rebuked them all, mildly.  He turned his attention back to the class roster, and James eased slightly in his chair, though still scowling, as the roll call dragged on.  Slughorn seemed to linger over certain students, enquiring about their families and bantering with them.  Most of those students were in his own house; the Gryffindors he tended to skim over quite quickly, until he came to ‘Potter, James’.

   ‘Oho!’  He bounced excitedly on his toes, causing his massive belly to quake so much it looked as if the straining buttons on his emerald waistcoat might pop off at any second.  ‘Any relation to Fleamont Potter, the famed potioneer?’ he asked, though it was quite obvious he knew the answer already.

  ‘He’s my father, sir,’  James confirmed.

   Slughorn looked delighted.  ‘ _Two drops tames even the most bothersome barnet!’_ he chortled, quoting the Sleekeazy’s jingle.  His pale eyes raked curiously over James’s unruly mop, but he did not ask the obvious question.  He simply smoothed his moustache, unconsciously, and moved on to the next name.

  ‘Rosier, Evan,’ he called.

   The boy who’d taunted Sirius in the corridor raised his hand, and Sirius realized why he’d looked so familiar.  The Blacks and the Rosiers were related; this one was probably a second or third cousin of his.  Most likely, he’d been present at some of the same dreary society functions that Sirius had been forced to attend, though he couldn’t be sure.  On these occasions, Sirius was for display purposes only; he’d never been allowed to mix with the other children.

   At last, Slughorn seemed to be wrapping up his interminable roll call.  He rushed through the last few names on his list, pausing briefly only on ‘Twilfitt, Tansy,’ whose family apparently owned several successful businesses in the London area.  The professor wound up the parchment with a flourish and pointed his wand at the blackboard. His signature faded away, to be replaced with the words _Introduction to Potions,_ written in a looping, flowery script, by an unseen hand.

   ‘Now then, now then, are we ready to plunge into the intoxicating world of Potions?’ Slughorn asked them, without bothering to wait for an answer.

   ‘In your seven years at Hogwarts, you shall become familiar with the composition of a great many potent brews, some as elementary as a Cure for Boils, others as complex and particular as a Draught of Living Death.  But first, you must have a basic comprehension of all the components and how they work together.  A skilled potioneer understands that one can’t simply toss lacewing and leeches into a cauldron willy-nilly, and brew up a perfect Polyjuice.

   ‘Some of you are undoubtedly muggle-born,’ he continued, allowing his gaze to linger on the Gryffindor side of the room, while ignoring the scornful snickers from the Slytherin side.  ‘Tell me, is there any reason why _your_ mother could not whip up a simple Pepper-Up potion in her own kitchen, assuming she had access to the proper ingredients?’

   Lily Evans raised her hand.  Next to her, Snape seemed to slide down in his seat an infinitesimal fraction.

   ‘Yes, Miss… er,’  He blinked at her apologetically, apparently having already forgotten her name.

   ‘It’s Evans, sir,’ she reminded him.  ‘And every potion requires a magical component, so no.  _My_ mother could never make one,’ she answered matter-of-factly, and Snape gave a tiny, almost imperceptible wince.

   ‘Precisely, Miss Evans. Precisely! Five points to Gryffindor!’  Slughorn twinkled, sounding rather impressed.

    ‘As Miss Evans has so rightly  informed us, it is possible for only a witch or a wizard to create an effective potion.  A _properly trained_ witch or wizard,’ he stressed heavily. ‘And _that_ is where we begin!’ he announced.  ‘Let us all turn to page seventy-three in _Magical Drafts and Potions._ ’

   There was a flurry of muffled thumps and rustling pages.

   ‘Now,’ he cleared his throat, ostentatiously.  ‘Before you are the instructions for a simple Calming Draught.  It is similar in composition to the Draught of Peace, but the process is more straightforward, and the effects of the finished potion are much milder, if done correctly.  It _is_ a rather advanced potion to have you all start with,’ he admitted, ‘but I’m not looking for perfection.’ he assured them.  ‘A bit of a challenge, you know, keeps things interesting.  So! You will find all that you need in the supply cupboard. Cauldrons out, and off you go!’ he cried.

    The four Gryffindor boys shared an uncomfortable look, and Sirius kicked himself mentally.  How thick could he _be,_ to forget to bring the thing one brews potions in, _to Potions class?_ Perhaps Kreacher and his mother were right, after all.  Perhaps he _was_ completely useless.

  James put up his hand. ‘Er... Professor? We… um, sort of… forgot to bring our cauldrons, sir,’ he informed Slughorn, with an air of apprehension.

    ‘Oh dear,’ said Slughorn, gazing thoughtfully at their cauldron-free table.  ‘Can’t brew a cup of tea without a kettle, can we?  Well! Not to worry, not to worry,’ he chuckled, much to Sirius’s amazement.

    ‘A quick change of plans, everyone!’ he declared.  ‘You’ll be working in pairs today. Let me see, now…’ he mused, looking contemplative for a moment, then suddenly rather smug, as if he’d just had a brilliant revelation.

    ‘Aha, yes! Mr Potter, if you could double up with Mr Avery, over there,’  he pointed to the Slytherin side of the room, pretending not to notice the horrified looks from both boys.  He partnered Sirius with Rosier, Remus with a slight, sneering blond boy called Wilkes, and poor Peter with Mulciber, a particularly mean-looking, massive hulk of a boy. Soon, every reluctant Gryffindor had an unenthusiastic Slytherin partner.

   Sirius, for his part, quickly became resigned to ignoring the constant stream of whispered slurs from his probable cousin.  It wasn’t that difficult; Rosier was saying nothing he hadn’t heard before from his own mother, who was at least inventive with _her_ insults.  Stoically, Sirius turned his back on him, mid-sentence, and concentrated on measuring out a precise amount of powdered moonstone and adding it to the cauldron.

  Rosier seemed content to let Sirius do all the work.  He lounged in his chair, smirking.  ‘Such a shame,’ he sighed sardonically, shaking his head.  ‘At least your parents thought to have a spare. Maybe _he’ll_ turn out all right.’

  At this, Sirius rounded on him furiously, wand still in hand.  Inadvertently, he splattered a scarlet spray of potion across the worktable, so that it looked like it was covered in droplets of fresh blood.

  ‘You leave my brother out of this!’ he snapped.

  Rosier seemed delighted to have touched a nerve at last.  He opened his mouth gleefully, no doubt to say something else idiotic, but Sirius cut him off.  He’d had enough.

   ‘I’m _not_ disinherited, you know,’ he informed Rosier coldly, certain that this was true.  From what he understood, this was an elaborate process, and could not possibly be done in a single day, or without his knowledge.  ‘Want to find out what it’s like to be on the wrong side of the Blacks?’ he challenged, with much more bravado than he actually felt, though he _was_ reasonably sure that in the convoluted world of pureblood politics, the House of Black outranked that of Rosier, by quite a lot.

   He was right.  The smarmy look on Rosier’s face slid into uncertainty.  He didn’t apologize, but he didn’t  say anything else either, which was fine with Sirius.  He turned back to the potion, frowning.  Had it been simmering for one minute, or two?  Holding his breath, he added a sprig of lavender.  The potion hissed slightly, and turned a sickly shade of green.  According to the textbook, he was supposed to stir clockwise until it turned purple, then add the valerian root.

  ‘Here,’ he instructed, shoving the roots toward Rosier.  ‘Make yourself useful.’

  Rosier looked as if he wanted to protest, but thought the better of it.  Resentfully, he picked up his knife and began to chop the roots.  They worked in silence, crushing and cutting and stirring, while the potion shifted from violet to rose to a vaporous silver.  At last, Sirius added a single hair from a three-toed sloth, and gazed thoughtfully at the finished product.

  Though it was a darker blue than the tranquil turquoise described in the textbook, Sirius supposed it was at least passable.  Looking around the classroom, he saw that James and Avery’s potion was an electric peacock hue, and Remus and Wilkes had somehow ended up with a rather violent shade of puce.  Evans and Snape, he noted with annoyance, had managed what looked like a perfect potion.  He glanced over to see how Peter was getting on, just in time to see him sway alarmingly and pitch backward, hitting the stone floor with a bone-crunching thud.

  The dungeon echoed with gasps of shock, and one of the girls actually screamed.  Mulciber, however, seemed to be laughing.

  In an instant, James was across the room, bellowing into his face.   ‘What did you do to him?’ he demanded.

  ‘Nothing,’ Mulciber shrugged carelessly, eyeing Peter’s motionless body with disgust.  ‘The idiot decided to _taste_ the potion,’ he sneered.

   Slughorn hurried over, jowls quivering in dismay, and pushed through the gathering crowd of students.  ‘He ingested it, you say?’ he queried sharply, and with some difficulty, knelt to take Peter’s pulse.

    ‘Hospital wing,’ he declared briskly, after a moment.  ‘I daresay he’ll be all right, as soon as he sleeps it off,’ he added confidently.  ‘Still, best to have Madam Pomfrey take a look at him, just to be sure.’

    ‘We’ll take him, Professor,’  James volunteered, at once.  From behind him, Sirius and Remus voiced their agreement.

    Slughorn nodded at them, and winced as he attempted to struggle to his feet.  James held out a helping hand, but it was no good; the professor’s bulk was far too much for him. In the end, it took all three of them, plus a reluctant Mulciber and an intimidatingly tall Slytherin girl, to heave him upright again.

  Mopping his brow, he bent over Mulciber’s cauldron to inspect their potion, which was bubbling glutinously, such a deep shade of purple that it was almost black.  Frowning, he reached into his robes and produced a crystal phial, which he filled with the ominously dark liquid and sealed carefully, before handing it to James.

   ‘Give that to the Matron,’ he instructed.  ‘She’ll want to examine exactly what he swallowed.’

   As they lugged the limp form of Peter out of the classroom, they heard Slughorn beginning a stern lecture on elementary Potions safety.

 

   ‘ … I’m telling you, no one is _that_   thick,’ James was insisting, yet again, as they sat down to breakfast in the Great Hall the next morning.  ‘Who _decides to_ _taste_ a potion?’

    Sirius shrugged.  They’d been having this same conversation since they’d dragged Peter’s dead weight up to the hospital wing the previous afternoon, and he had gotten a bit bored with it.  ‘Lovely day,’ he commented, reaching for a platter of sausages.  A heavy rain was splattering the large mullioned windows, and the enchanted ceiling overhead was a stormy, threatening swirl.

    Remus grunted groggily in reply, but James did not seem to hear Sirius at all.  He was still glowering in the direction of the Slytherin table, with a narrow-eyed glare of suspicion that reminded Sirius forcefully of the Auror Moody.

   ‘We’ve got to get them back,’ he muttered darkly. 'They can’t _poison_ one of our men and get away with it!’

   ‘Madam Pomfrey _did_ say he’d be all right, after a good night’s sleep,’  Remus reminded them, smothering a yawn.

   ‘She _also_ said he’d be well enough to come down to breakfast this morning,’ James countered, looking pointedly at Peter’s empty seat.  Turning to Sirius, he added, ‘So what’s the plan?’

    Sirius looked at him blankly. “What plan?’

   ‘Our brilliant plot for revenge, obviously!’ James sighed, impatiently. ‘Keep up, will you?’

    Sirius sighed.  Clearly, James was not about to let go of his theory.  He gazed absently around the hall, thinking, and his eyes alighted on the back of Malfoy’s gleaming blond head.  Again, Narcissa was nowhere to be seen.  Her absence made him a bit uneasy; he wondered what she could possibly be up to that was causing her to miss meals.  He had a feeling that whatever it was, it would not be good news for him.

    Looking back at James, he said  ‘I _did_ have this one idea,’  and recounted his Great Thestral Dropping Revelation.

    ‘Brilliant!’  cried James, his eyes shining.  ‘Let’s do it!  Anyone know where the thestrals live, when they aren’t pulling the carriages?’

    Sirius shook his head.  ‘The trouble is -’  he began.

     ‘- it’s hard to find what you can’t see,’ Remus finished for him, as he spread marmalade thickly onto a slice of toast.

     ‘So… neither of _you_ can see them either?’  James groused in disappointment, frowning down into his untouched plate of eggs and bacon.

     ‘You know, most people would consider that a _good_ thing,’ said Sirius, dryly.

     James ignored him.  ‘D’you think you have to witness a _human_ death, in order to see them?’ he mused, causing Remus to nearly choke on a mouthful of pumpkin juice.

    ‘I think so,’  Sirius decided, tossing a napkin across the table to Remus, so he could mop up the juice he’d dribbled down his front.  ‘Otherwise, anyone who’d ever stamped out a cockroach would be able to see them, right?'

   ‘Do we _have_ to talk about cockroaches, or horrible murders, _every_ time we eat?’ a plaintive voice spoke from above them.

    ‘Pete!’ cried James, looking up.  ‘You’re alive!’

    ‘Course I am,’ he sat down, looking  a bit sheepish.  ‘I’m _starving,’_   he added, helping himself to a towering stack of French toast.  ‘I slept right through dinner last night.’

    ‘Never mind that,’ said James.  ‘Can you see thestrals?’ he asked Peter eagerly.

     ‘W-what?’ stammered Peter, dropping his loaded fork with a clunk, splattering powdered sugar over the table.  ‘No!’ he shook his head, eyes wide.

    ‘Bollocks,’ mumbled James sulkily.  ‘Well, we’ll just have to get them back another way,’ he said thoughtfully.  ‘It’s still a brilliant idea though,’ he assured Sirius.

    ‘Get… who? What?’ Peter looked bewildered.

    ‘How’d Mulciber do it, anyway?’ James demanded, as if he hadn’t heard the question.  ‘How’d he force you to drink the potion without anyone seeing?’

    ‘He… I… what?’  Peter looked more lost than ever.   ‘He didn’t…’

    Realization seemed to dawn on James. ‘ _Don’t_ tell me…’ he said slowly.

   ‘It looked just like the filling for my mum’s blackcurrant cobbler,’ Peter muttered defensively.  'She always lets me lick the spoon when I help her. I just sort of... forgot where I was for a second,' he tried to explain.

    Sirius guffawed at the appalled look on James’s face.  He was just about to say _I told you so_ when the arrival of the post owls caused him to swallow his laughter. There, at the front of the approaching swarm, was the dark form of Erebus, bearing an unmistakable flash of crimson-coloured doom.

   _Not again._

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


	9. Pets and Peeves

    It seemed as if everybody and their owl had heard about Peter’s misadventure in Potions, which led to some rather unfortunate repercussions. One was that some of the Slytherins had begun to call him _the Wand-Licker_ (which Sirius secretly found hilarious, though he’d managed to refrain from saying so in front of Peter).  The other was that some of their teachers had felt compelled to greatly augment their introductory safety lectures; in their first Transfiguration lesson,  Professor McGonagall spent almost an entire double period droning on sternly about the catastrophes that would befall them if they failed to adhere to the stringent rules of her classroom.  Some of the accidents she described were gruesome indeed, and Peter was not the only student who looked suddenly terrified at the thought of picking up a wand.  They needn’t have worried; the class ended before they got the chance, much to the disappointment of James and Sirius, who had been hoping to learn how to turn Snape into a toad.

   ‘Sorry,” Peter said miserably, as they made their way to the Defence Against the Dark Arts classroom.  ‘I know that was because of me,’ he admitted, his eyes downcast.

  ‘Ah, don’t worry about it, Pete,’ James replied, bracingly. ‘Old Snivellus is practically a toad already, anyway, the slimy little-’   he broke off as a thundering voice echoed down the corridor.

    **_‘BESMIRCHER OF BLOODLINES!  RUINATION!'_**

    Sirius froze, his blood suddenly as icy as if he’d walked into a wall of Bloody Barons, before he realized the voice did not actually belong to his mother.  It appeared to be coming from a wickedly grinning little man who was bobbing in midair just above their heads, a maniacal glint in his odd glowing eyes.

    ** _‘DEPRAVED DEGENERATE!’_** he boomed happily, in an uncanny impersonation of that morning’s Howler. **_'FILTH!  SCUM!'_**    He produced a handful of blackboard chalk, from seemingly out of nowhere, and began to pelt the four of them with it, leaving dusty white splotches on their dark robes.

  James leapt at him, swearing, but he simply sailed out of grabbing distance, and James closed his fists on thin air.

  ‘Ooooh,’ the strange floating man cackled, with delight.  ‘The ickle firsties want to play with Peeves!’

  Sirius had recovered from his shock enough to flash an obscene hand gesture at him.  Unfortunately, he did this just as a very short, wizened woman in Professors’ robes came hurrying around the corner. Grinning evilly, Peeves disappeared with a pop, leaving Sirius awkwardly facing the approaching teacher, his arm still outstretched in a two-fingered salute.  Hastily, he dropped the arm and shoved both hands into his pockets, trying to look casual.

   ‘Er, good morning, Professor,’ he said, trying to ignore the odd choking sounds James was making, in a poor attempt to disguise his laughter.

   ‘Good morning, boys,’ she replied pleasantly, taking in the chalk stains covering their robes.  ‘I see you’ve met our resident poltergeist already,’ she added. ‘Fascinating old chap, isn’t he?’

   _Fascinating_ was not the word Sirius would have chosen, but he nodded anyway, grateful that she, at least, was not shouting at him.  He’d had quite enough of _that_ for one day.

   ‘Fascinatingly _annoying,’_ muttered James, and the professor turned an indulgent smile upon him.

   ‘That’s quite right.’ she agreed, much to their surprise. 'But I’ll save the lecture for the classroom, shall I?’

    In a sudden, amazingly agile movement for someone who looked to be at least as old as Dumbledore, she spun past the four of them and aimed her wand at a door Sirius had not noticed before.  The lock clicked loudly and it creaked open, as the torches within flared to life.

   ‘Welcome,’ she said, still smiling serenely, ‘to Defence Against the Dark Arts.’

 

   The Defence classroom definitely _could_ be described as fascinating.  It was a large, domed hall with leaded windows, and a massive, unsettlingly undulating chandelier. It looked as if it were made out of writhing, wrought iron runespoors, and Sirius thought it would have fit in easily at Grimmauld Place.  There was a lifelike, moving model of a sneering, one-legged Hinkypunk swinging a lantern, and a statue of a Jarvey was perched atop an old trunk that was rattling ominously, as if something angry might be trapped inside.  Anywhere they looked, there was something of interest, but the thing that captivated the attention of all four Gryffindor boys was the dragon skeleton that hung suspended from the ceiling, swaying eerily in a nonexistent breeze.

   They chose a table directly beneath the dragon’s skull, and sat watching as the rest of the class filed in.  The Ravenclaws wandered into the room in groups of twos and threes, taking in everything curiously, except for a single girl with waist length, rather scraggly blonde hair, who floated in with her nose buried in a book, seemingly unaware of her surroundings.   The book, Sirius noticed, was upside-down.  He nudged James, who snorted and started to whisper something.

   He was interrupted by a sudden cacophony of shrieking from the corridor. A moment later, the girls of Gryffindor burst breathlessly through the door, each one covered in chalk dust and looking thoroughly irritated.  It appeared that they, too, had had a run-in with Peeves.

   Professor Vindex, as she introduced herself, seemed eager to use his appearance as a teaching moment.  After a brief attendance check, she twirled her wand wordlessly at the blackboard, where glowing, scarlet letters arranged themselves to spell out  _Poltergeists._

  ‘The word _poltergeist_ is German in origin,’ she began authoritatively, ‘and its rough translation is _noisy ghost,_ which certainly seems appropriate for Peeves,’ she paused, smiling, as most of the class laughed in agreement.  ‘But there is an important difference between a poltergeist and a true ghost.  Can any of you tell me what that is?’ she asked.

   At this, almost all of the Ravenclaws raised their hands.

  ‘Yes, Miss Vance?’ said the professor, pointing into the front row, at a tall girl with straight dark hair.

  ‘A poltergeist is an amortal entity,' the girl stated confidently.

  ‘Very good,’ Professor Vindex nodded, twitching her wand so that _Amortality_ was also spelled out on the blackboard, in the same blazing script.

   ‘Amortality,’ she explained, ‘is the main common trait of Non-Human Spiritous Apparitions, or non-beings. Unlike ghosts, these entities were never born, and were never truly alive. However, they _are_ similar to ghosts in that they cannot be killed, only banished or contained, and that may be where confusion sometimes arises.’

    ‘So we _can’t_ murder Peeves?’ James called out, without bothering to raise his hand.

    ‘I’m afraid not, Mr Potter,’ she informed him. ‘He's what is known as an indestructible spirit. Yes, Miss Evans?’ she asked, as Lily put up her hand.

    ‘If a non-being is never born, then how do they exist, Professor?’ she wondered.

   ‘Oh, excellent question!’ Professor Vindex exclaimed happily.  ‘Non-beings are created from, and fed by, human emotions.  The poltergeist is sustained by chaos, turmoil, and _mischief,_ ’ she revealed, looking directly at James and Sirius, ‘ ...which of course is always in abundance at Hogwarts.  Exactly how any poltergeist _originally_ came into being has always been a bit of a mystery, however.  For example, Peeves is said to have been here since the castle was built, nearly a thousand years ago. He may have spontaneously manifested at that time, or he may be an entity as old as humanity itself, who was simply attracted by the strength of the school’s magic; we may never truly know.  Attempts to question Peeves himself on the matter have, in my personal experience, gone rather poorly,’ she added, sounding suddenly disgruntled.

    James nudged him, smirking.  ‘Think she invited him round for a cuppa and a bit of a chat?’ he whispered.  Sirius had a vision of the kindly old professor offering tea and scones to a malevolent spirit, and hurriedly stuffed his knuckles into his mouth to smother his laughter.

   ‘... but, of course, poltergeists are far from the _only_ type of non-being,’ the professor was saying, when he started listening again,   ‘Who can name another?’ she asked.

   Predictably, about a dozen Ravenclaw hands punched the air.  Ignoring them all, Professor Vindex zeroed in on Remus.  ‘Mr Lupin, I know there is at least one _you_ must be aware of,’ she said.

    Remus looked startled.

    ‘I believe your father is something of an authority on the subject,’  she prodded gently.

     Remus nodded, clearly uncomfortable at being singled out.  ‘He… er, specializes in banishing boggarts,’ he answered quietly.

     ‘A boggart is an excellent example,' she nodded, and Sirius noticed that her eyes kept flicking toward the old trunk in the corner.  'And as the poltergeist feeds on confusion and chaos, what so sustains the boggart?’   

    ‘Fear,’ said Remus promptly, sounding a bit bolder.

    ‘Precisely,’ Professor Vindex nodded.  ‘Our deepest, darkest, most primal fears. Mr Lupin, can you tell me what a boggart looks like?’

    Remus shook his head.  ‘A boggart is a shape-shifter,’ he explained. ‘It takes the form of whatever it thinks will scare us the most. It would probably look different to each person in this room.’

    ‘Excellent, take five points for Gryffindor!’ the professor beamed.  ‘Now, who can give me one more example of an amortal entity?’ she asked, seeming to take pity on the Ravenclaws and their sea of frantically waving hands.

   ‘Yes, Mr Bishop?’

   ‘A dementor!’ a blond boy with a sunburnt nose answered breathlessly.  ‘They feed off depression and misery,’ he added quickly, before she got the chance to ask anyone else.

   'Indeed, Mr Bishop,’ she agreed. ‘Yes, yes, five points for Ravenclaw,’ she assured them, and the boy flashed a smug look toward Remus.

    ‘Bloody swot,’ James murmured, so only Sirius could hear. ‘That red-nosed git, I mean.  Not _Remus,’_ he clarified.

   ‘Too right,’ Sirius whispered back.

   ‘Mr Black and Mr Potter,’ the Professor called out. ‘Is there something you’d like to contribute to the discussion?’

    James straightened up and smiled innocently. ‘No, Professor,’ he said.

    Sirius had intended to give an identical answer, but when he opened his mouth, he somehow blurted out  ‘There’s a boggart in that old trunk, isn’t there?’ instead.

    The entire class turned to stare at the trunk, which gave a nasty lurch, as if whatever was inside could feel all of their eyes on it.  The Jarvey statue on top wobbled dangerously before toppling to the floor, and the students seated closest to it edged their chairs away nervously.

  ‘Why, yes, there is,’ the Professor confirmed, sounding delighted.  ‘How did you know?’

   Sirius had encountered quite a few boggarts in his lifetime, which was not at all surprising.  Boggarts love to hide in the deepest, most impenetrable shadows, and Grimmauld Place was made of those. He wasn’t about to say _that_ in front of half his year, though, so he gave a casual shrug and said, ‘Just a hunch, Professor.’

   ‘Are you going to let it out?’ James asked her eagerly.

   ‘Yes,’ she said matter-of-factly, and several people, including Peter, gasped in alarm.  ‘As a practical lesson for my third-years,’she went on, causing quite a few sighs of relief.

   James looked crestfallen. ‘We have to wait _two whole years_ to find out what they look like?’ he cried in dismay.

   ‘Sorry to disappoint you, Mr Potter,’ Professor Vindex said, sympathetically.  ‘Unfortunately, the Boggart-Banishing practical is not approved curriculum for first-year students. Unless you encounter one elsewhere,  I am afraid you will just have to wait.  Now, if you’re that interested in boggarts, you can always choose to make them the focus of your essay,’ she suggested brightly.

   ‘What essay?’ James asked suspiciously.

   ‘The one I am about to assign,’ she told them all briskly.  ‘Three feet of parchment, due next Tuesday, on the Non-Human Spiritous Apparition of your choice.  Be sure to include a detailed description of physical characteristics, as well as a list of common traits.  You might also add case studies of known encounters, and any banishment charms, spells, or potions that may be effective against them,’ she instructed.

    James groaned, and a few other people joined him.  Only a very few, though.  Most of the Ravenclaw half of the class had glazed looks, like they were already writing their essays in their heads.

    ‘What are you picking?’ James asked, over the scratching of quills as they all copied down the assignment.

     ‘Poltergeists,’ said Sirius immediately. Boggarts reminded him too much of his mother, and dementors gave him the creeps.  Also, he thought it might come in handy to know how to banish Peeves, or at least shut him up.  ‘Are you doing boggarts then?’

    ‘Definitely,’ nodded James, giving the battered old trunk a contemplative, uncharacteristically serious look, and Sirius found himself wondering what form the boggart of the fearless James Potter could possibly take.

 

   Two days later, Sirius sat in the common room, gazing at a blank roll of parchment.  He really ought to be working on his Charms homework, or studying his transfiguration notes, or researching his essay for Defence.  Instead, he was writing to his brother.  Well, trying to.  He’d been sitting here for ages already, trying to figure out what to say.  At last, he dipped his quill and carefully wrote:

_Dear Reg,_

_See, I told you I’d write to you! I’m sure by now you’ve heard the news- Mother hasn’t exactly been quiet about it…_

    Sirius chewed thoughtfully on the feather end of his quill and wondered if he ought to scratch out that last bit.  ‘Not been quiet’ was the understatement of the century.  Mrs Black had sent a Howler every day he’d been at school so far.  Sirius was stared at and whispered about everywhere he went, and Peeves had quickly taken to following him through the corridors between classes, gleefully shrieking things like ‘ ** _Slopsucker!’_ ** or **_‘Stain upon my soul!’_ ** and _‘_ ** _Mud-sucking Maggot!’_** \- which seemed to be his favourite. Regulus did not need to know any of _that._ There was also a very good chance that his mother would confiscate the letter and read it herself, and he did not want to give her the satisfaction of knowing how much trouble she was causing him.

   After numerous scratch-outs, and several feet of crumpled parchment, he finally had a long, chatty letter describing the castle and grounds, the classes and teachers, and Peter 'Every-Day-Is-Pancake-Day' Pettigrew’s ongoing, impressive and frankly nauseating effort to always eat a little more than he had the previous day.  He thought it would be all right to mention Peter, as the Pettigrews were a fairly well-respected Pureblood family  (he didn't dare bring up Remus, and his muggle mother, or James, after Narcissa's reaction to the Potter family name).  Satisfied, he scrawled his signature at the bottom, and spread the letter on the table for the ink to dry.

    He leaned back in his chair and glanced at the clock over the common room fireplace.  Every hour on the hour, a ferocious-looking lion would burst out of it with an ear-splitting roar.  The first time he’d heard it, he’d about jumped out of his skin, and poor Peter had nearly wet himself.  Now, after a Howler a day, the lion’s roar seemed about as terrifying as a kitten’s purr (which, to Peter, was probably still a little bit scary, thought Sirius, smirking to himself).  According to the clock, he had enough time to dash off a message to his Uncle Alphard, as promised, before it was time to leave for Astronomy class.  He wondered where James was; he ought to be back from detention by now. Come to think of it, he hadn’t seen Remus or Peter in a while either.  Or anyone, really. The common room was nearly empty, which was fine with him. It only meant there were less people around to stare at him.

  Both of his letters were sealed and addressed by the time James came toppling through the portrait hole.

  ‘I’m absolutely knackered,’ he groaned, throwing himself into the chair next to Sirius.

  ‘What’d McGonagall make you do?’ Sirius asked.  ‘You were there for ages!’

   ‘Just lines,’ James shrugged.  ‘I had to write _I will not talk back to prefects_ one hundred times.’

  ‘That took you _four hours?’_ Sirius was skeptical.

   ‘I _may_ have added _even if they are power-hungry, busy-bodied gits who suck all the joy out of living_ to the end of every line,’ James confessed, ‘and McGonagall _may_ have made me do it all over again. Twice,’ he added.

_‘Twice?’_

   ‘Well, she didn’t specify, the first time,’ he explained, wincing and rubbing his right hand.

   Sirius stared at him incredulously.

 _‘What?’_ said James, innocently.  ‘She said, _‘Write it again, Mr Potter,’_ and I just _assumed_ that she was so amused by my description of Malfoy that she wanted an extra copy for backup.’

   Sirius snorted. ‘It _was_ pretty spot-on,’ he agreed.

   ‘You know that thing she does with her mouth, when she’s angry?’ James went on, grinning.  ‘How her lips go all thin?’

   Sirius nodded.  They’d only had two Transfiguration classes so far, but he was already intimately familiar with the Professor’s trademark look of furious disapproval.

   ‘By the time I left, they had completely disappeared,’ he snickered.  ‘Her face went straight from nose to chin, like this-’  He sucked in his lips and bugged out his eyes, in an exaggerated impression.

    Sirius burst out laughing.  ‘Better watch out, mate,’ he counseled. ‘At this rate, she’ll snap and turn you into a snuffbox before the end of next week.’

   The common room had begun to fill up with first-year girls clutching telescopes.

   ‘Why does there have to be so _many_ of them?’ James grumbled, glancing over at the gaggle of girls, who had started to file out through the portrait hole.  Lily Evans caught him looking and frowned, as she seemed to do every time she saw either one of them.   It was true that the four Gryffindor boys were vastly outnumbered by the girls in their year.  Sirius had overheard one of them saying that their dormitory had actually had to be magically enlarged, in order to accommodate them all.

   ‘Give it a few years, sport,’  a red-headed upperclassman chuckled, as he passed behind the two of them.  ‘I guarantee you won’t be complaining _then.’_

   ‘Obviously, he hasn’t met _Evans,_ ’  James whispered sourly.  ‘She would-  Hey!’ he yelped suddenly, leaping to his feet.  ‘They’re going to beat us to Astronomy! Where’re Remus and Peter?’

    ‘No idea,’  Sirius stood and stretched, sliding the two letters into his pocket and picking up his telescope.  ‘Probably up in the dorm still. I haven’t seen - ” he broke off as the door to the boys dormitories crashed open and Peter came panting into the room, with Remus at his heels.

  ‘Hey!’  Peter frowned, stopping in his tracks and surveying the nearly empty common room.  ‘There’s no surprise pancake party down here!’   he exclaimed, glaring at Remus indignantly.

    _Surprise pancake party?_    Sirius mouthed at Remus, eyebrows raised.

    ‘He wouldn’t get up,’  Remus shrugged.

    James howled.  Peter pouted, and muttered something about midnight classes being stupid.

    ‘Well, you can’t study the night skies in the _daytime,_ ’ Sirius pointed out, as they clambered through the portrait hole.

    ‘Why not?’ Peter insisted. ‘ Why couldn’t we just... look at a picture or something?’

    ‘The stars and the planets move around, though,’  James reminded him.

    ‘So do pictures, unless you’re a muggle!’ Peter shot back.

    ‘He’s got a point,’ James admitted, sounding faintly surprised. 

     Peter looked smug. 

     'What, muggle pictures _don't_ move?'   Sirius asked in amazement, turning to Remus.  'Why not?'

     Remus looked apologetic.  'I'm not really sure how photography works,'  he admitted.     

    ‘Hey, look!’ James said suddenly.  ‘Isn’t that your friend, Pete?’ he snickered, as a cat-shaped shadow shot across the corridor in front of them.

    The self-satisfied smile slid off Peter’s face.   ‘It’s not _funny_ ,’ he sulked.  ‘Cats _bite._ My Auntie Enid has this big, mean, old tom cat called Mr Biscuits, and he always…’

    Sirius tuned Peter out and quickened his stride.  He wanted to at least _try_ to get to the Astronomy Tower before Peeves turned up.  So far, the poltergeist had not followed him into any classes, meals, or the common room and dormitory (perhaps he couldn’t; was there some kind of Poltergeist-repelling Charm?  He _really_ needed to work on that essay).  But every time he ventured into the corridors, Peeves would appear within moments.  Sirius was surprised when they reached the foot of the tower with no sign of him. Maybe this time, he would be lucky.  After all, it _was_ the middle of the night.

   ‘Poltergeists don't _sleep,_ do they?’ he wondered aloud.

   ‘I don’t _think_ so…’ James mused.  ‘I mean, if they’re not alive, they shouldn’t need to, right? What do _you_ think, Remus?’ he asked.

    Remus didn’t reply.

    ‘Remus?’

     Looking back, Sirius saw that Remus and Peter had fallen far behind them.  Heaving a humongous sigh, he slouched against the wall as he and James waited for them to catch up.   ‘How can you _possibly_ walk that slowly?’ James called once they were in earshot, ‘Was your mother a flobberworm or something?’

     Remus frowned.  ‘That’s... biologically impossible,’ he informed them.

     ‘Bio- _what?’_ wondered Sirius.  He honestly did not know what Remus was talking about half the time.

     ‘Never mind,’ sighed Remus.

     ‘You all right, mate?’  James asked, looking closely at him.

     ‘I...yeah, I’m fine,’ he said, nodding a bit feebly.

     ‘You don’t _look_ fine,’  Sirius observed.  Even in the dim torchlight, his face was deathly pale.

     ‘Well, thanks a lot,’  Remus smiled weakly, attempting a joke.  None of them laughed.

     ‘We can walk you to the hospital wing,’ James offered.

      Remus shook his head adamantly.  ‘Really, I’m all right.’

     James started to argue, but was interrupted by Peeves zooming exuberantly around the corner, cackling madly. **_‘Stain of dishonour!’_ ** he shrieked happily, swooping down on Sirius, who ducked, though not quickly enough to avoid losing a chunk of hair to the poltergeist’s snatching hands.

    ‘Ouch!’ cried Sirius furiously, rubbing his scalp.  Why was it _always_ the hair?  He made a half-hearted attempt to whack Peeves with his telescope, but he had already soared out of reach.

    ‘Well, that answers the poltergeist question, I guess,’ James muttered, and Sirius sighed in resignation.

     ** _‘Cursed changeling!’_** Peeves sang, turning a somersault on the ceiling.   ' ** _Befouler of my blood!_**

    ‘Are you all coming, or what?’ Remus demanded, glancing over his shoulder as he started up the stairs.

    ‘Are you _sure_ you’re-’  James began hesitantly.

 _‘YES.’_ Remus said, firmly, as Peeves began showering them all with handfuls of dried beetle eyes.

    Sirius and James shared a glance and a shrug, then started up after Remus, with Peter close behind.  Peeves did not follow them, but his voice did.  It reverberated horribly in the stone stairwell as he joyfully screeched ** _‘Muck-wallower! Bottom-feeder!’_**   before segueing into his finale; a deafening, repetitive chant of   ** _‘Mud-sucking Maggot!’_** that he kept up all the way through their entire dizzying climb.  As they burst through the door at the top of the tower, everyone lowered their telescopes and stared.  Sirius supposed they had made quite an entrance.  All four of them were gasping and sweating, shaking beetle eyes from their hair and robes, as the profane refrain of Peeves’ tuneless song echoed thunderously behind them, disturbing the still midnight air.

    James slammed the door, and Sirius sighed in relief at the sudden silence.

    ‘Sorry we’re late, Professor,’ James said breathlessly. ‘We… ran into a bit of a... situation,’ he added, needlessly.

    The professor adjusted his spectacles and gazed sternly down upon them.  ‘Since it is the first class, I shall issue all of you a warning. It is the only one you will get.’ he informed them. ‘Next time, it will be detention. Is that clear?’

   ‘Yes, Professor,’  they all nodded solemnly.

   ‘As I have already informed your classmates, I am Professor Kepler,’ he said briskly, quill poised above his class register.  ‘And your names, gentlemen?’

    ‘One at a time,’ he added, lifting his eyes to the sky, as they all spoke at once.

    ‘Ah,’ he said, when Sirius gave his name.   ‘The brightest star in the sky. Can you point it out for me, Mr Black?’

   ‘Not at the moment, sir,’  Sirius replied, thinking he really should have seen this coming.  ‘But if you check back in a few hours, I can show you then.’  He heard a few giggles and scandalised whispers behind him, and someone who sounded a lot like Lily Evans muttering something about hoping he got detention.

    ‘And can you tell me why that is, Mr Black?’  Professor Kepler enquired, calmly.

    ‘Well... at this time of year, Sirius doesn’t rise until just before dawn.’ he explained reluctantly.  ‘They call it a winter star, because _that’s_ when you can see it directly overhead at night, late winter.’

     Sirius hoped the teacher wasn’t going to quiz him on everything he knew about all the constellations.  He’d been forced to study them practically since birth; they’d be up here for weeks.

  ‘That is correct,’ the Professor nodded. ‘Five points to Gryffindor.’

   ‘Swot,’ James muttered, poking Sirius with a bony elbow.

   'Tosser,'  Sirius murmured, nudging him back.

    ‘Can anyone tell me what constellation Sirius the star is a part of?’  Professor Kepler glanced around the class.   A curly-haired blonde girl raised her hand, and the professor nodded to her.

   ‘Canis Major, sir.  And it’s known as the _dog_ star,’  she added, looking at Sirius the person with narrowed eyes. Sirius had no idea what he’d done to earn _her_ dislike; he could not remember ever speaking to her before.  Like Evans, she seemed to detest him just for existing.

    The girls next to her giggled, and James snorted. ‘Careful now,’ he cautioned them, smirking. ‘He bites.’

    The professor cleared his throat.  'Excellent, Miss McKinnon. Another five points.’

    Professor Kepler went on to lecture them in depth about what seemed to be his favorite constellation.  ‘Good job, mate,’ James whispered.  ‘If he keeps this up the whole class, maybe he won’t notice I forgot my telescope.’  Behind them, Peter gave a small squeak of distress.  Apparently he had forgotten, too.

   The professor did, indeed, keep talking for the entire period. He told them all that Sirius was actually a star system, made up of two stars that orbited one another.  When he explained that the secondary star,  Sirius B, was classified as a ‘white dwarf’ and was ‘really quite dim’, all the girls tittered and James broke into a wicked grin.

   ‘Don’t even _think_ about it,’  Sirius warned him in a low voice.

    ‘Too late for that,’  James snickered.

   The professor began to veer off into the myths and legends surrounding the constellation and its brightest star.  Most of it was fairly interesting, but Sirius would have preferred to live without knowing that some ancient wizards used to sacrifice a dog every year on the heliacal rising of his namesake.   No one in the class was happy about this, and Professor Kepler dismissed them soon after, probably making a mental note not to bring up the puppy-killing thing again.

    All of the Gryffindors were fairly quiet as they trooped down the tower stairs, except for James, who could not seem to resist ribbing Sirius for being a ‘star student.’  Everyone in earshot groaned at this, and Sirius mimed shoving him down the stairs.

    ' _Seriously,_ mate,’ said James.

    ‘Oh, haha,’ said Sirius, sarcastically.  ‘I’ve never heard _that_ joke before. _Very_ original.’

   ‘What joke?’  Peter asked, confused. ‘I don’t get it.’

   ‘I’m _not_ joking,’ James insisted, as they came to the foot of the stairs and spilled out into the corridor.  He turned to Sirius. ‘You were the first one to turn a matchstick into a needle in Transfiguration, you knew that boggart was there in Defence when even Remus, the son of a bloody  _boggart hunter_ didn't notice,  _and_ your wandlighting charm nearly blinded poor Flitwick on like, the second try.  Are you some kind of prodigy or something?’ he wondered.

    ‘Nah,’ Sirius waved him off, laughing. ‘I just practiced a lot, that’s all. I... didn’t have much to do at home, over the summer.’  He left out the part about thinking he’d been imprisoned for life, and deciding to learn magic to break himself out.

    _‘I knew it!’_ Lily Evans stopped walking and glared daggers at him.

   ‘You’re a dirty, rotten _cheater!’_ she cried, actually stamping her foot, before she turned on her heel and rushed away down the corridor, shaking with fury.  The rest of the girls hurried after her, but not before giving Sirius some very dirty looks.

   He turned to James, bewildered. ‘What’d I say?’

   ‘Er, well, we’re not supposed to do magic outside of Hogwarts,’ James explained, looking uncomfortable. 'It’s kind of… _illegal._ At least, it is until we turn seventeen.’

   ‘It’s the Decree for the Reasonable Restriction of Underage Sorcery,’  Remus put in, sounding a bit hoarse.  It was the first thing he’d said since class had begun.

   ‘Catchy name,’ Peter commented.  No one laughed.

   ‘It’s kind of unfair, the way it works,’ James went on.  ‘See, the Ministry can detect _where_ magic is used, but not _who_ is using it.  So if you do magic at home and your parents are wizards…’

   ‘Then you have an advantage.’  Sirius finished, understanding dawning on him.

    ‘Evans is muggle-born,’  agreed James. ‘If _she’d_ practiced, the Improper Use of Magic people probably would have been knocking down her door. Doing magic in front of muggles can get you expelled, or even arrested.   I suppose that’s why she thinks you cheated.’

   ‘I _did_ cheat,’ Sirius said dully.  Would Evans rat him out?  What would happen if anyone else found out?  Would _he_ be expelled?  Arrested?

   ‘You did not. Not really,’  argued James.  ‘You clearly didn’t _know_ about the law. The Ministry leaves it up to magical parents to enforce it, and _your_ parents…well…’ he trailed off, shrugging, at a warning look from Remus.

     In case anyone was in doubt about exactly how terrible his parents were, Peeves came rocketing down the corridor to remind them.

     **_‘Demon seed of my womb!’_ ** he squawked, cartwheeling in mid-air. **_‘Soulless abortion!’_ **

    A sharp hissing sound came from behind them as an extremely angry-looking cat streaked suddenly out of the shadows, spitting madly.  It launched itself furiously at Peeves, scratching and yowling in a ferocious frenzy.

 ** _‘Help! Help! Attack!’_** shouted Peeves, trying in vain to shake off the cat, which had somehow clawed its way onto his face. 

    Not one of them made a move to assist him.  In defeat, Peeves disappeared with a faint pop, and the cat landed lightly upon the stone floor, where it began to groom itself casually,  as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened at all.

   ‘Well... you don’t see _that_ every day,’ remarked James, following a stunned silence. 

   The cat paused in its preening and stared at them, imperiously, one hind leg in the air.

    Peter backed away from it, his hands shielding his face as if he expected it to assault him next.‘See? _SEE?_ I _told_ you!’ he gibbered anxiously. ‘It just... attacked, out of nowhere!  Just like Mr Biscuits!’

   ‘Peeves deserved it, if you ask me,’ Sirius shrugged.  ‘Good kitty,’ he added, leaning over to scratch behind its ears.

   ‘Why’s it always hanging around, though?’ Peter insisted.

   ‘It’s probably not even the same cat from before, Pete,’ James said, reassuringly.  ‘There’s got to be loads of pet cats wandering around Hogwarts.’

   Peter did not seem at all comforted by this.  ‘Can we go now?’ he asked, plainly still jittery.

     James yawned theatrically.  'Sounds good to me,” he said affably. 

    The cat, Sirius noticed, followed them all the way to the Fat Lady’s portrait before it turned and stalked away, twitching its tabby-striped tail.

 

 

 

   

    The next morning found Sirius standing at the top of the West Tower, gazing out over the grounds from a dropping-encrusted window.  He watched the owls he’d dispatched to Regulus and his uncle as they soared away, silhouetted against the crisp and sunny sky.  So far, he was having a pretty good day.  He’d managed to find the Owlery after only about three wrong turns and one trick step, and he’d not heard a single peep from Peeves.  True, it was not quite eight in the morning, but he’d take what he could get.

     It was peaceful up here; the only sounds being the faint rustling of wings, an occasional soft hoot, and the hollow rush of wind through the tower.  He considered skipping breakfast, which for obvious reasons had become the most dreaded part of his day.  But he knew it wouldn’t do any good. The daily Howler would find him, wherever he was, and he did not want to give his mother the opportunity to deafen dozens of innocent owls.  Anyway, he was hungry, and he’d promised to meet James and the others.  He made his way toward the stairs, grimacing slightly as the regurgitated skeletons of countless small animals crunched beneath his feet.

    The grounds were mostly deserted, this early.  Most students were probably either still in their dorms, or just sitting down to breakfast.  The only sign of life he’d seen, aside from the owls, was a single cat prowling the base of the tower.  He wondered idly if it _was_ it the same cat they kept seeing around, or if Peter was just paranoid.  He wasn’t sure how to tell. He didn’t know very much about cats; they all sort of looked alike to him.

    Lost in thought, he absently rounded a corner, and nearly ran smack into Andromeda.  She was coming up a wide stone set of stairs he’d never noticed before.

   ‘Oh, hello, cousin,’ she said, distractedly.

   ‘Hello,’ he answered.  ‘Are you all right?’ he asked, looking at her more closely.  She looked a bit disheveled;  her hair was tangled, and her robes were rather rumpled, which was unusual for her.  Normally, Andromeda was perfectly groomed, not a shining dark hair out of place.

   ‘I’m fine,’ she assured him.  ‘Just tired,’ she added, stifling a yawn.  ‘Seventh year- it’s absolutely _mad,_ already. ‘ she confided. ‘Come on, I’ll walk you to breakfast.’

    As they walked, Sirius informed her that he had indeed written to his uncle, just as he’d promised,  and wondered aloud why he hadn’t seen Narcissa lately.  She was still conspicuously absent from mealtimes, though Malfoy was always sneeringly present at the Slytherin table.

   ‘Oh, _that,’_ Andromeda smirked.  ‘She’s been in hiding. _Somehow,_ the pages of her diary ended up magnified and plastered to the walls of our common room with a Permanent Sticking charm.’

    Sirius raised an eyebrow.  ‘I can’t imagine how _that_ could have happened.’ he commented.

    ‘Indeed,’ she said innocently.  ‘ _Very_ mysterious.’

   Sirius grinned. _This_ was why Andromeda was his favorite cousin.

    His smile faded, and his good cheer began to desert him as they approached the Great Hall.   Andromeda squeezed his shoulder reassuringly, seeming to guess the reason for his sudden change in mood.

    ‘Don't let her get to you,’ she advised.

     He nodded to her, resolutely, and headed for the Gryffindor table to slide into the seat that James had saved for him.  Predictably, Peter was attacking another gargantuan breakfast.  Next to him, Remus nibbled listlessly on a slice of toast, while James had a plate piled with an obscene amount of bacon and sausages.

    ‘Don’t judge me,’ he said, through a bulging mouthful of meat. ‘I need to bulk up, if I want to go out for Quidditch this year.’   

    ‘Can first-years try out, then?’ Sirius asked in surprise.

    ‘Anyone can _try out,’_ Remus informed them.  ‘But the last time a first-year actually _made_ the team was about eighty years ago.’

    ‘See?’  said James, waving his fork for emphasis.  ‘It’s time for _that_ to change,’ he declared.

   The post owls began to glide in like a dark cloud, and Sirius felt the last shreds of his earlier good mood fade into oblivion.  Looking around, he saw that he wasn’t the only one resigned to face the coming storm; quite a few students had begun wearing earmuffs to breakfast.  Everyone except the Slytherins, that is.  He wasn’t sure if it was because they considered earmuffs undignified, or because they thought his daily humiliation was a form of enjoyable entertainment, and did not want to miss a word of it.  Probably a bit of both, he decided, as he searched for the familiar, dreaded form of Erebus in the flurry of feathers overhead.

    He wasn’t there.

   ‘Maybe your mum’s taking the day off,’ James suggested, crunching on an extra-crispy bit of bacon.

    Sirius watched in disbelief as the last owl winged its way out of the hall.  ‘Maybe,’ he said doubtfully.  That didn’t seem like her, though.  Perhaps she had simply run out of names to call him.  There couldn’t be _that_ many more synonyms for _shame_ , _traitor, freak_ or _disappointment._

    He jumped as he felt someone tap him on the shoulder. He twisted around and found himself looking up into the stern face of Professor McGonagall.

   ‘Good morning, Professor!’ James smiled winningly.  ‘Lovely day, isn’t it?’

   ‘Good morning to you, Mr Potter,’  the Professor replied. She did not smile back.  She did not seem to believe in smiling (at least, not when James was around).  ‘Mr Black, if you could come with me, please.’  

   It was clearly a command, not a request.

    James gave Sirius a wide-eyed look.  ‘Why?’ he demanded. ‘What’s happened? Where are you taking him?’

   ‘The matter does not concern you, Mr Potter,’  Professor McGonagall informed him coolly.  ‘Mr Black, I did mean _now,’_ she added pointedly, to the still-seated Sirius.

    Reluctantly he stood and followed the professor out of the Hall.  She led him briskly down the corridor, through a tapestry of some tap-dancing hags, up a hidden staircase, and past the Transfiguration classroom.  Silently, he hurried after her, a well of apprehension bubbling up inside him.  He was suddenly certain that the reason he had not received a Howler was because his mother was here in person, to drag him back to Grimmauld Place.

   He wondered if he should try to run.  But where could he go? He thought that he could probably talk  Andromeda into helping him hide, but what then?  He couldn’t just cower away in a forgotten corner of the castle forever, lurking in the shadows like the world’s most un-frightening boggart.

   He was looking around desperately, wracking his brain for a feasible plan, when Professor McGonagall abruptly stopped before a large portrait of a haughty-faced witch playing the bagpipes.  She tapped the frame with her wand and murmured _‘feles vigilans’._ A moment later, the portrait slid aside, revealing an ordinary door which bore a sign reading _Deputy Headmistress._

   She ushered him though it, not bothering to slide the portrait closed again, and they stepped into a small, cosy office crammed with books.  A glowing fire was crackling cheerfully on the hearth, beneath a large tapestry of some dodgy-looking cats playing cards, but Sirius barely noticed any of this.  To him, the most important thing about the room was that his mother was not in it.   He relaxed slightly.

   ‘Have a seat, Mr Black,’ the professor instructed, waving toward one of the squashy armchairs facing her desk.  He sat on the very edge of the seat and waited nervously. 

   Professor McGonagall perched on her own chair and cleared her throat.  She was just about to speak when the door to her office was flung open with a furious crash.  Sirius tensed and looked up, fully expecting to see his mother.  He was absolutely gobsmacked when James Potter barged breathlessly into the room instead.

   ‘Professor!’  James panted desperately.  ‘He didn’t _know_ about the law! It wasn’t his fault! You can’t expel him! You _can’t-_ ‘

    ‘Mr Potter!’  she snapped, impatiently.  ‘I do not have the slightest idea what you are talking about, and I am certainly _not_ about to expel anyone. Today,’  she added, as an afterthought.  ‘Though if you do not remove yourself from my office at once, I shall be forced to reconsider.’ 

    She looked as if she deeply regretted leaving the portrait hanging open.

     ‘Oh.  Well…’  James turned bright red. ‘Er… I’ll just...be off, then. Erm, sorry!’

    He flashed an apologetic grimace toward Sirius as he backed hastily out of the room, knocking over a worn scratching post as he went.

    ‘As I was about to say, Mr Black,’  Professor McGonagall sighed, while Sirius inwardly braced himself for the news that his mother was waiting elsewhere in the castle, or perhaps arriving sometime later that day (which was good, that would give him time to plan his escape).   ‘As your Head of House, I have been forced to start intercepting your post.’ she informed him.

   This was so far from what he’d expected to hear that he simply stared at her.

   ‘I realize it is an extreme measure,’ she continued.  ‘But then it is quite an extreme situation.  I cannot allow these daily disturbances to continue.  We _are_ trying to run a school here.  I am sure that you understand, even if your mother doesn’t seem to.’

   Wordlessly, he nodded, belatedly noticing the pile of charred scarlet scraps and the scorch marks on her desk, next to a rather ugly pair of tartan earmuffs.

   ‘If you happen to receive any letters that are not hateful, vile-’  she stopped, closing her eyes briefly, to take a deep, calming breath.   ‘If you receive any appropriate _,_ _nonexplosive_ correspondence, I shall pass it on to you personally,’ she promised.

    ‘Thank you, Professor,’ he said automatically.  ‘I’m sorry,’ he added.

    Her businesslike demeanor softened somewhat. ‘I don’t hold you responsible, Mr Black,’ she assured him.  ‘I have met your mother,’ she confided with a shudder that suggested it had not been a pleasant experience.

    ‘Professor,’ he blurted, before he could stop himself, ‘if she came here, to the school… would she… could she…’  he swallowed the rest of the sentence. He did not want to say it out loud.

   ‘She would not be allowed inside, I can promise you that,’ she said, with a steely glint in her eye.  ‘The school _does_ have safeguards for such situations.  You are not our first student with a difficult parent, and sadly, I doubt you will be the last.’

    Sirius flopped back in his chair, deeply relieved.  The day suddenly seemed bright again.

   ‘Biscuit, Mr Black?’  she offered, pushing a tin of Ginger Newts across the desk at him.

   ‘No, thank you, Professor,’ he shook his head.

   ‘Suit yourself,’ she said, crunching the tail off one neatly.  ‘That’s all for now; you may return to breakfast, if you wish. I shall see you in Transfiguration.’

   ‘Yes, Professor.  Thank you, Professor,’ he added, with heartfelt sincerity, as he leapt to his feet.

    ‘Oh, Mr Black,’  she called, just as he reached the door.

    He turned to look at her inquiringly.

    ‘Please inform Mr Potter that _if_ the situation he seemed to be referring to _had_ occurred, it would be the parents who answered to the Ministry.  The child would _not_ be expelled, or otherwise held accountable,’ she said, and Sirius could have sworn he saw the faintest shadow of a smile creep across her face.

  
  
 

 


	10. In the Shadow of the Murder Tree

   The Gryffindor common room was probably the best place in the world to be during a thunderstorm.  The brightness of the morning had given way to gloomily gathering clouds, and by the time they’d finished their final lesson, the rain was lashing furiously at the windows of the castle.  A savage wind howled and shrieked around the tower, but inside, flames snapped happily in the fireplace, casting the whole room in a friendly glow.  Students from every year were lounging on the threadbare but comfortable furniture, chatting and laughing, or playing games.  There were a few N.E.W.T. level students hunched over the battered tables, feverishly studying, but only a few.  Everyone else seemed to have given in to the easy harmony of a lazy Friday evening.

   Sirius was sprawled across the end of a heavily patched sofa, idly watching as James and Peter played an animated game of wizard chess.  Neither one of them were very good at it, but it appeared that Peter might have a slight edge.  James certainly seemed to think so, because he kept trying to distract him by randomly mentioning different food items.

    ‘Spotted dick!’ he muttered. ‘Sticky toffee pudding. Raspberry trifle.’

    Peter ignored him, his face screwed up in intense concentration as he pondered his next move.

   Sirius looked away from the game, his mind wandering.  It was hard to believe he’d been at Hogwarts for less than a week. So much had changed, in such a short time.  Just a few weeks ago, he’d stood wistfully at the window in Grimmauld Place, imagining the view from the _Slytherin_ common room.  He wondered what he’d be doing right now, if the Sorting Hat had done what everyone had expected it to do, and sent him to the dungeons.  Would he be playing Gobstones with Snape?  Swaggering around with Rosier and Mulciber and calling people blood traitors, like a miniature Malfoy?  He shuddered.  He’d take a Howler every day for the rest of his life, he decided, and whatever else his mother could conjure from the depths of her depraved soul, gladly, before he ever turned into _that._

    ‘Mince pies!'  James had apparently convinced his remaining pawns to join him in heckling Peter.  'Coconut ice!' they chorused.  'Treacle tart! Chocolate- ‘

‘Checkmate!’ Peter announced triumphantly.

    _‘No,’_ James whispered in amazement, and Sirius burst out laughing at his expression of stunned disbelief.

   Peter looked immensely pleased with himself.  ‘I won! Sirius! Did you see? Remus-  hey! Where’s Remus?’ he pouted, gazing around the common room in disappointment.  He seemed a bit put out that Remus was not there to witness his victory.

   ‘The library,’ Sirius reminded him.  ‘He needed _another_ book for his Defence essay, remember?  Don’t worry,’ he added, grinning wickedly.  ‘You can tell him all about your heroic defeat of the great James Potter at dinner.’

    ‘Oi!’ James protested, laughing.  ‘Fancy a rematch, then?’ he challenged.

    ‘Okay,’ agreed Peter happily.

    Sirius yawned and got to his feet.  Chess bored him even when he was actually playing; watching another game was sure to put him right to sleep.  He wandered aimlessly around the room, giving the knot of giggling first-year girls a wide berth (he was not in the mood for any more of their nasty looks).  He watched with interest for a while as a crowd of slightly older boys built a dangerously leaning tower of Exploding Snap cards, and smirked to himself as a redheaded teenager lost spectacularly at Gobstones and was sprayed violently in the face.

    ‘Bad luck, Fab,’ chuckled his opponent.

    ‘Oh, bugger off, Kingsley!’  the redhead retorted, but he was laughing, too.

    After reading every single thing posted on the notice board  (Quidditch tryouts were this coming Monday; the Hogwarts Ancient Runes Club met on the second Thursday of each month; someone was offering to trade a Screaming Yo-yo _and_ a Strangling Slinky for a rare Wendelin the Weird Chocolate Frog Card, and someone else had lost a pet toad), Sirius turned restlessly toward the portrait hole.  He had a vague notion of joining Remus in the library (he _still_ hadn’t bothered to start his own essay), unless he happened to think of something more interesting along the way.

    **BOOM!**  There was a sudden explosion, followed by shouts of laughter, and he glanced over to see that the tower of Exploding Snap cards had finally collapsed, setting the  curtains ablaze and scorching several sets of eyebrows.  James looked up at the sound, and noticed Sirius standing by the exit.

   ‘Where are _you_ sneaking off to?’ he wondered.

    Sirius shrugged, watching as a harrassed-looking prefect extinguished the flaming draperies with a jet of water from her wand.

   ‘Wait up, will you?’ James requested. ‘We’ll come too. It’s dinner time, anyway,’ he added, just before the lion clock let out its usual, eardrum-piercing roar.

    They hurriedly packed up the chessmen (who shouted at them in protest),  and joined him in scrambling out into the corridor,  before the inevitable crush of bodies could jam up the portrait hole.  Peter was chattering excitedly, clearly ecstatic about having beaten James at something not once, but twice in a row.  James laughed it off at first, but by the time they’d reached the Grand Staircase, he was beginning to look distinctly annoyed.

    ‘We were _there,_ Peter,’ he finally remarked irritably.  ‘Save the play-by-play for Remus, why don’t you.’

     Peter fell silent, looking hurt, and the three of them continued on to the Great Hall without speaking.  Sirius surveyed the tables as they entered, hoping to see Remus waiting for them;  they could use his peace-making abilities at the moment.  But there was no sign of him.

    ‘Hey,’ he said, nudging James.  ‘Wonder what _that’s_ about,’ he murmured, nodding toward the staff table. 

   Professor Dumbledore was speaking gravely to a gaggle of ghosts that had gathered around him.  After a moment, he nodded to them, and they rapidly dispersed, fading through walls in every direction, except the Bloody Baron, who simply sank down through the floor, presumably back into the dungeons.

   ‘Maybe he’ll come out right on top of Snivellus,’ James commented hopefully, finally breaking the awkward tension.

   Sirius snickered at the thought of Snape flailing and shrieking as the ghost passed through him.  Even Peter smiled a bit, as he helped himself to a large slab of roast beef, and they fell back into their usual easy banter as they ate.  James talked animatedly about Quidditch, and spent most of the meal convincing Sirius to try out for the Gryffindor team with him.

   ‘I’ve never played,’ he warned James.  ‘I’ve barely ever even been on a broom before,’ he admitted.  He vaguely remembered being allowed to do a few loops around the garden on his uncle’s broom when he was very small (after solemnly swearing not to tell his mother, of course), but that was the extent of his flying experience.

    ‘Well, did you fall off?’ James wanted to know.

    ‘Of course not,’ Sirius retorted, insulted.

   ‘Well, there you go then,’ James said, sounding smug.  ‘You can try out for Beater.  All you have to do is stay on the broom and hit things,’ he insisted.

   Sirius thought there might be a bit more to it than that.  Still, racing around the pitch and bashing bludgers did sound like fun.  ‘All right,’ he shrugged. ‘Why not? I don’t have a broom, though,’ he reminded James.  ‘And I heard the school ones are all  rubbish.’

   James waved a hand dismissively. ‘We’ll worry about that after we make the team,’ he said confidently.

   Dinner was nearly over, and still Remus had not appeared. James was unconcerned.  ‘You’ve seen what he’s like when he’s reading,’ he reminded them.  ‘Dumbledore could ride in naked on the back of a flaming hippogriff and he’d barely even look up.’

    Sirius snorted, though he had to admit it was probably true.

    ‘But now he’s missed dinner,’ Peter said worriedly.  ‘He’ll be hungry!’  To him, this was plainly a fate worse than death.

    ‘We’ll sneak something back to the dorm for him,’ promised James.

    ‘I’ll be in charge of that,’ volunteered Sirius.  He was an expert at nicking food from the dinner table thanks to his mother, who sent him angrily away from it at least three times a week.  Surreptitiously, he spread a napkin in his lap, and began to sneak choice bits from the platters before it all disappeared, while the others kept a lookout.

   Several minutes later, he waddled carefully out of the Great Hall, flanked by James and Peter.  He avoided the eyes of the professors and prefects, trying very hard to look like he was _not_ smuggling half a roast chicken, sixteen dinner rolls, and several puddings underneath his robes.

  
  
                                                                                                              * * *

 

    ‘It’s after curfew,’ James noted, and Sirius could hear the frown in his voice.

   ‘The library’s closed,’ he agreed, looking up from his half-hearted outline for his Defence essay, to stare at Remus’s still-empty bed.  ‘Reckon he just fell asleep in there?’

   James pondered that for a moment.  ‘Nah,’ he said finally.  ‘That beaky librarian-  you know, looks like she could be Snape’s mum, with that nose?- she’d have tossed him out, for sure.’

   Sirius huffed in amusement at his description of Madam Pince, and Peter drowsily mumbled something that sounded like _‘Betty cinder hoss piggle-wiggle,’_ from underneath his pillow.

   ‘Eh, what’s that, Pete?  Did somebody slip you a Babbling Beverage?’ James cracked.

   Peter removed the pillow from his head and sat up groggily.  ‘I _said_ , I bet he’s in the hospital wing.  He was looking right peaky last night, remember?’

    Sirius nodded, recalling his pale face in the torchlight.

    ‘That’s right,’ said James, snapping his fingers.  ‘I was ready to drag him there myself, and force a Pepper-up down his throat. Good thinking, Pete!’ he added approvingly.

   Peter smiled sleepily at the praise and flopped backward again.  A moment later he let out a loud snore.

   ‘How does he just... pass out like that?’ Sirius asked in amazement.

    James shrugged. ‘Spooky, isn’t it?’

    They listened to him snore for a moment, before Sirius turned reluctantly back to his wretched essay, and James sighed restlessly.

   ‘What should we do, now that we’ve solved the Mysterious Disappearance of Remus J. Lupin?’’ he pondered.  ‘What do you think the J. stands for, anyway? Jules, maybe? Jasper?’ he suggested.

    Sirius shook his head. ‘It’s definitely Jessica,’ he deadpanned, causing James to collapse in hysterical glee.

    ‘Remus… Jessica… Lupin!’ he choked out,  in a wavering falsetto.  ‘You come here this instant!’  He sounded eerily like his own mother had, that day in Flourish and Blotts.

   ‘You make a very convincing lady,’ Sirius informed him, and James responded by chucking one of the pilfered dinner rolls at him.

  It was an invitation to war.  Sirius sprang off his bed, tossing his parchments aside, and scrambled to claim his ammunition.  Soon, the dormitory was a minefield of flying rolls and whizzing chicken parts, and one magnificently exploding chocolate mousse.

 They didn’t stop until a wayward roll smacked the still-snoring Peter squarely in the face, bouncing off of his nose.

  They both cringed, exchanging guilty looks, but Peter did not stir.

   ‘He really _can_ sleep through anything,’ James snorted in astonishment.

  ‘Usually not if it has to do with food, though,’ Sirius pointed out.  ‘He’s probably just wiped out from destroying you at chess earlier,’ he added, smirking.

  ‘Sod off,’ James grumbled, flicking a shard of chicken bone at him.

   Sirius ducked, raising his hands in surrender.  He collapsed onto his bed, and surveyed the destruction.  There were bits of pulverized bread and meat on almost every surface, and a surprising amount of chocolate was dripping steadily from the ceiling.

  ‘It’s a good thing Remus _isn’t_ here,’ James commented dryly.  ‘If he saw this, he’d probably murder us in our sleep.’

    Sirius laughed in agreement. Remus _was_ a bit of a neat freak.  A terrible thought suddenly occurred to him, and he sat up in alarm. ‘None of it got on his books, did it?’

   ‘Oh, Merlin, I hope not.’ James grimaced,  bounding across the room to inspect Remus’s shelf.

   ‘There’s a weird grease blob on _Hogwarts, A History,’_ he reported, after a moment.  ‘But the cover’s all kind of ink-stained anyway- he might not notice,’ he said optimistically.

   Sirius was sure that he would.  But he would probably never be able to guess exactly how it had gotten there.

  ‘Maybe we should take it to him,’ he said thoughtfully.  ‘He’s probably going mad without being able to look up what historically significant event occurred in the Charms corridor in 1345, or whatever.’

    James’s eyes lit up. ‘Brilliant!’ he exclaimed excitedly. Let’s go!”

   ‘What, _now?’_ Sirius asked in surprise.  He’d been thinking of stopping by on the way to breakfast the next day.

   ‘Sure, what else are we going to do?’ reasoned James. ‘Go to bed? _Study?_ It’s our first weekend at Hogwarts! We can’t sit around doing homework like _Ravenclaws!’_

   Sirius gazed at the chocolate-splattered parchment and textbooks that littered his bed and decided that James was right. ‘All right, let’s do it!’ he said, bouncing up with a grin.

   He glanced toward Peter’s bed, wondering if they should try to wake him, but James shook his head warningly.

  ‘Let him sleep,’ he said quietly, and Sirius caught his meaning. Peter would probably only slow them down, and increase their chances of being caught out-of-bounds. James leaned over his trunk to load his pockets with Jelly Slugs and Peppermint toads, while Sirius heaved _Hogwarts, A History_ from its place of honour on the shelf, and they tiptoed out of the dormitory.

   As they crossed the darkened common room (which still smelled faintly of burning hair),  something occurred to Sirius.  ‘Wait,’ he whispered to James, pulling him back from the portrait hole and drawing his wand.  _‘Alerte Intrus,’_ he murmured, spinning it counter-clockwise three times.

  ‘What’s that do?’ James asked, sounding intrigued.

  ‘Lookout spell,’ Sirius muttered.  ‘It’ll warn us if someone’s coming,’ he explained, thinking of patrolling prefects, and of Peeves.  He hadn’t had a run-in with the poltergeist since the cat incident, and he wasn’t even sure if the spell could detect non-beings, but he thought it couldn’t hurt.

   James eased the portrait open slowly, and they both winced at the creaking sound it made.  A high-pitched, rumbling noise startled Sirius for a moment, before he identified the sound as the Fat Lady’s snores.  They both had to cover their mouths to smother their laughter.  Eventually, they managed to compose themselves enough to climb out into the deserted corridor.  

   ‘You think Pomfrey will even let us in?’ Sirius asked in a low voice as they prowled cautiously down the passageway.  He'd only met the Matron once, when they'd delivered Peter to her after his Potions fiasco, and she had not seemed terribly friendly.

   ‘If we’re lucky she’ll be asleep, too,’ James replied, turning toward the main staircase.

    _‘Not that way,’_ hissed Sirius, and James looked at him in surprise.  ‘It’s too out in the open,’ he  added quietly.  ‘I think there’s another way down, over by the North Tower,’ he added.

   James considered this, then nodded approvingly, and they continued to creep along, trying to keep to the shadows.  The bright light of the moon was streaming in through high windows, making it easier for them to see, but also to be seen.

 _‘Sail Ho!’_ Sirius’s wand suddenly grumbled.  _‘Weigh anchor, lest ye dance the hempen jig!’_

   ‘What-’ James began, before he was adamantly hushed by Sirius.

   ‘Someone’s coming,’ he whispered urgently.  He attempted to steer James behind a statue of Lachlan the Lanky, but before they could duck out of sight, a faintly glowing, pearlescent grey figure was bearing down upon them.

   ‘Boo!’ shrieked a vaguely familiar-looking ghost, who was wearing shimmering silver breeches and a ridiculously plumed hat, which seemed to have been made out of an entire peacock. 

   ‘Did I do it right? he asked them, eagerly.  ‘Are you frightened?’

   ‘Er… oh yes, terribly.’ James replied, unconvincingly.

    ‘Don’t patronize me,’ the ghost sulked.  ‘I wasn’t executed yesterday, you know.  I have haunted this castle for four hundred and seventy-nine years!’ he drew himself up proudly.  ‘You would think that would be enough!  You would _think_ that my honour could never be usurped!  You would _think_ that the name of Sir Nicholas de Mimsy-Porpington would still command some resp-’

 _‘You’re_ Nearly Headless Nick!’  James exclaimed excitedly.  ‘The Gryffindor ghost, right?  My dad told me about you.  He said it took the executioner forty whacks to chop off your head, and even then it didn’t come off all the way!’

    ‘Forty-five,’ Nick corrected him, irritated.  ‘Forty-five hacks with a blunt axe. It certainly is the most haunting thing _I’ve_ ever-’

    ‘What did you _do?’_ Sirius interrupted interestedly, wondering what crime could possibly demand such a brutal death sentence.

     Nick looked deeply affronted at the question, and informed Sirius frostily that he was the most insensitive child that he had ever had the misfortune to meet, in all of his death.  Abruptly, he drifted away from them, muttering ‘Most haunted? I’ll show _them_ most haunted!’ to himself, the spectral feathers on his hat quivering violently with his indignation.

    ‘What was _he_ on about, then?’ James wondered, as they watched him waft away, still mumbling.

    ‘No idea,’ replied Sirius.  ‘Though I _do_ think I like him better than the Bloody Baron,’ he said decisively, as they started walking again.

     ‘If he _really_ wants to be frightening, he ought to ask the Baron for lessons,’ James joked.

    ‘Or at least lose that stupid hat,’ opined Sirius.

    ‘Oh, I don’t know,’ James argued.  ‘I think the hat’s the scariest thing about -’ he stopped abruptly as Sirius flung an arm across him in a silent warning.

    His wand had began to whisper hoarsely from his pocket, once again.  They shrank back into the shadows, listening intently for the footfalls of patrolling prefects, but none came.  Instead, a cat came prowling up the passageway. It paused for a moment, staring straight at them, before turning tail and disappearing through a darkened doorway.

    James snorted in disbelief and Sirius let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding.

   ‘Maybe you ought to teach that spell to Peter,’  James smirked.  ‘It’s dead useful... if you want to hide from _cats.’_

   ‘Piss off,’ Sirius elbowed him, laughing.  ‘It’s just very… thorough,’ he said, mock-defensively.

    _‘Very,’_ James agreed dryly.  ‘What d’you bet that next time it turns out to be warning us about a dung beetle or something?’

    They had barely gone a dozen paces when the spelled wand gruffly advised them to _‘Show a leg, ye scurvy curs!’_

    James started to groan, and Sirius quickly nudged him in the ribs with the spine of _Hogwarts, a History_ to silence him _._ This time, he didn’t think it was a ghost.  Or a cat.  It was definitely not a dung beetle.

  This time, he heard footsteps, drawing rapidly closer, and a bright flare of wandlight blazed around a near corner.  He glanced around for a place to hide, but they were in a wide, blank stretch of corridor, opposite a tapestry of some befuddled-looking trolls dressed as ballerinas.  There were no alcoves or doorways to duck into, no statues or suits of armor to lurk behind.

    They were trapped.

 

 _‘Explain yourselves.’_  demanded Professor McGonagall, who was suddenly looming over them in her dressing gown and hairnet, looking absolutely furious.

    ‘Er...just out for a bit of an evening stroll, Professor,’ James tried, blinking in the harsh light from her wand.

    ‘Mr Potter, it is well past curfew and I am not in the mood to tolerate your foolishness!’ she snapped.  ‘What in Merlin’s name do you think you are doing traipsing about the castle at this hour?’

    ‘I know it’s late, Professor,’  Sirius spoke up earnestly.  ‘We just really wanted to make sure that Remus was okay,’ he told her, doing his best to look innocent and contrite (two things that he rarely, if ever, actually was).

  He must have done a good job of it because Professor McGonagall gaped at him in surprise.  Her eyebrows nearly disappeared under her hairnet, and she seemed to be temporarily speechless.

   ‘Remus… Remus Lupin?’ she finally asked faintly, as if she thought perhaps she hadn’t heard him properly.

   ‘He never came back to the dorm tonight,’ James explained.  ‘He’s been looking pale, so we figured he was in the hospital wing. We just wanted to cheer him up, Professor.’ 

   ‘We thought he might like to have his favorite book,’ Sirius added, holding up _Hogwarts, A History._

    Professor McGonagall  simply stared at them, her eyes glittering oddly behind her spectacles.

‘He _is_ all right, isn’t he?’ James wondered anxiously.

    ‘Mr Lupin is quite ill, at the moment, Mr Potter,’ she sighed, suddenly looking very tired.  ‘But yes, he _is_ going to be all right.’

    ‘What’s wrong with him?’ asked Sirius.

    ‘I’m not a healer, Mr Black; I’m afraid I can’t say,’ she informed him brusquely.

    ‘Can we-’ James started to ask.

   ‘You may _not_ visit him tonight,’ she frowned, recovering her usual severe demeanor. 

    ‘While your sentiments may be admirable, you are still in violation of curfew.’  She fixed them with her trademark steely glare, and continued.  ‘I have no choice but to dock ten points from Gryffindor, and issue each of you a detention.  If I catch you out of bed again, _for any reason whatsoever,_ I assure you that the consequences will be far worse than either of you can possibly imagine.’  She paused to let that sink in before marching them briskly back to Gryffindor tower.

   After waking the Fat Lady (who was much more polite to Professor McGonagall than she had been to Remus and Sirius), she turned toward them sternly.

   ‘At the moment, Mr Lupin needs his rest,’ she told them.  ‘I doubt the Matron will be allowing any visitors, but if you give me the book, Mr Black, I shall make sure that he gets it.’ 

   She held out her hand and Sirius surrendered it to her.

  ‘When _can_ we see him, Professor?’ asked James.

   ‘I shall keep you informed,’ she assured him.  ‘And I shall see the two of you in detention on Monday evening,’ she added.

   ‘Monday!’ cried James, in dismay.  ‘But Professor! It’s Quidditch tryouts on Monday! Can’t we -

   ‘You may not _reschedule_ a detention, Mr Potter.’ she interrupted him icily.  ‘Next time, perhaps you will consider the consequences _before_ you break the rules.’

   ‘But- but it’s _Quidditch!’_ he appealed desperately.

   Professor McGonagall remained unmoved.  ‘There’s always next year, Mr Potter.  Now, up to bed, the both of you.’ she commanded, gesturing imperiously toward the portrait hole.

 ‘Professor-’

  ‘Mr Potter, I _will not tell you again!’_   Her eyes were flashing dangerously, and Sirius thought she was beginning to look a bit deranged.  He seized James quickly by the arm and practically threw him into the common room.

   ‘Yes, Professor! Goodnight Professor!’ he called over his shoulder, before hastily slamming the portrait shut.

   James stood stock still, glaring at the back of the painting, and showing every sign of wanting to chase their Head of House down to continue arguing with her.

   ‘Don’t do it,’ Sirius warned him.  ‘You _know_ she won’t change her mind after all that. She might even decide to ban you for _next_ year if you try to go back out there.’

   James looked mutinous, but stayed where he was.  Finally, he heaved a great sigh and turned to Sirius.  ‘You’re right,’ he muttered reluctantly, and they trudged up to the dormitory in a defeated silence.

  
  
                                                                                                           * * *

    James was still despondent the next morning.  He laid motionless on his bed, staring into space, while Sirius woke Peter and prodded him into getting himself ready to go down to breakfast.

   ‘Coming?’ he asked James.

   He only grunted noncommittally, still gazing blankly up at the faint chocolate stains the house-elves had apparently been unable to completely remove from the ceiling.

   ‘What’s wrong with him?’  Peter, who had managed to sleep through everything, wanted to know.

   Sirius just shook his head.  He didn’t feel like going into it just now.

   ‘Well, I’m _starving,_ ’ Peter griped. ‘Can we please go eat?’

   ‘You go on,’ Sirius suggested. ‘We’ll catch up, in a bit.’

   ‘By _myself?’_ Peter cried, plainly not thinking much of _that_ idea.

   ‘You’ll be fine,’ Sirius said shortly, an obvious note of irritation in his voice.  He liked Peter well enough, but he had no patience for him when he acted helpless.  Privately, Sirius thought he could be more of a baby sometimes than even Regulus, who was nearly two years younger.

   ‘Both of you go on,’ James  mumbled miserably.  ‘I’m not hungry.’

    Peter moved toward the door, looking relieved, but Sirius stayed where he was.

    ‘Come _on,_ Sirius,’ Peter urged,  just as his stomach let out an enormous growl.

    ‘No.’ said Sirius stubbornly.  _‘We can’t leave a man behind,_ remember?’ he said, throwing James’s words from a few days earlier right back at him.

    James sat up and scowled at him.  Sirius folded his arms and stared back, waiting.

    ‘Oh, all right,’ James finally sighed, heaving himself off the bed.

 

    Breakfast was a cheerless affair. Neither Sirius nor James wanted to rehash the events of the night before, but Peter kept badgering them incessantly about what had happened, despite James’s terse replies and Sirius’s many attempts to change the subject.  When Peter innocently mentioned Quidditch, James tossed his fork down angrily and abruptly stood up.

    ‘Good idea,’ said Sirius, thinking quickly.  ‘Let’s go explore the grounds. Come on, Peter,’ he added, kicking him under the table.  James made no comment, but he did follow Sirius as he led the way out of the Great Hall, a slightly befuddled Peter trailing after them.

    Saturday mornings have a breathless, intoxicating magic of their own, so strong even muggles can sometimes feel it.  In eleven-year-old wizards, this intensifies into a pure, manic energy that is impossible to contain or stifle (at least, it would be extremely foolhardy to try).  As they drifted down the steps of the castle and ambled across the rolling lawn, its effect on James was nearly instantaneous.

    ‘Race you down to the lake,’ he challenged, breaking into a run before the words were fully out of his mouth.  Caught off guard, Sirius scrambled to keep up, not bothering to wait for Peter.

   It was exhilarating, sprinting across the dewy grass beneath the brilliant, cloudless sky.  Sirius was almost sorry when he caught up to James, panting and grinning, at the water’s edge.  By the time Peter reached them, red-faced and wheezing, they were wading shin-deep in the shallows, hoping for a glimpse of the giant squid (Sirius _still_ hadn’t seen it).

   ‘What happened to _Never leave a man behind?’_ Peter huffed petulantly at them.

   ‘It doesn’t count when we’re _racing,’_  James told him, laughing.  ‘Then it’s M _ay the fastest man win,_ right Sirius?’

   ‘Oh, piss off,’ Sirius retorted, but he was laughing too.  ‘You know you cheated, taking off before either of us realized what was going on!’

    ‘I can’t help it if you’re slow on the uptake,’ James smirked.

    Sirius gave him a friendly shove.  Caught by surprise, James lost his balance and tumbled backward into the water with a massive splash.  He surfaced roaring with laughter, and vowing revenge.  Peter skittered out of the way, alarmed, as they took turns dunking each other until they were laughing so hard they could barely breathe.

   Finally, they dropped down on the bank next to Peter, gasping and dripping.  They sat contentedly for a while, basking in the September sun, until Peter wondered aloud if Remus was feeling better yet.  James scowled darkly in the direction of the Quidditch pitch, and Sirius jumped to his feet.

   ‘We’re supposed to be exploring, not sunbathing,’ he reminded them, determined not to let James slip back into his earlier funk.

   ‘Exploring what?’  Peter asked, looking slightly suspicious.

   ‘The Forbidden Forest,’ said James immediately, leaping up, as Sirius had hoped that he would.  ‘Come on!’

 

    ‘But there are… _things.._. in the forest,’ Peter objected, frowning, as they meandered toward it.

    James snorted. _‘Things?_ What, like trees?’

   Peter shook his head.  ‘Dangerous creatures,’ he whispered, solemnly.  ‘Giant, man-eating spiders.  And bats that turn into _vampires._ And... I heard there was a pack of _werewolves,_ ’ he shuddered.

   Sirius guffawed.  ‘Who told you that?’

   Peter shrugged.  ‘I just, you know... _heard_ it,’ he mumbled.

 _‘Werewolves,_ honestly.’ James scoffed.  ‘That’s what they _want_ you to think,’ he said earnestly, turning so that he was walking backward, facing them.  ‘It’s just what they tell us to keep us out.’

    ‘I bet none of it’s _true.’_ James went on, as he stepped back into a patch of deep shade.  ‘I bet there’s nothing scarier than a bowtruckle in there!’ he insisted, nearly tripping over a gnarled root, and catching himself just in time.

   ‘It’s just a bunch of creepy old trees! We’re Gryffindors; we’re not afraid of trees!’ James finished stirringly,  just as an enormous branch violently whipped through the air and struck the place where James had been seconds before.

   Clods of dirt and grass exploded into the air at the impact, and the ground seemed to heave beneath them. There was an ominous creaking sound as the branch drew back and waved blindly in the air for a moment, as if deciding where to strike next.

     They had wandered into the shadow of the murder tree.

    ‘Run!’ Sirius howled at Peter, who seemed to have frozen in terror, as another branch lashed at them angrily.

    Peter did not move, so Sirius yanked on the back of his robes and forced him to stumble out of the way before it could crush them both.  The shock wave knocked them off their feet, but they had nearly clawed and squirmed their way to safety when Sirius heard a warning shout from James and a sound like a cracking whip just above his head.  The world exploded in pain and darkness, and after that, he heard nothing at all.

 

                                                                                                                       * * *

 

The Hospital Wing was a long hall crammed with rows of narrow beds, though at the moment, only three of them were occupied.  Madam Pomfrey’s agitated voice could be heard behind the privacy screen of one of them, stridently admonishing a particularly unfortunate patient.

  ‘Engorgement Charms are _never_ to be used on sensitive body parts! One little slip could _curse it right off_ , Mr Stebbins, and I _cannot_ grow those back! Small is better than nothing at all!’

  Sirius tried to cover his involuntary snort of laughter with a dramatic fake sneeze, and ended up producing an odd choking sound that was about as subtle as an exploding Erumpet horn.  Madam Pomfrey’s frowning face appeared instantly around the edge of the screen, and Sirius gave her an innocent wave.  She glared at him for a long moment before turning back to tend to the hapless Stebbins, and he breathed a sigh of relief.

  The Matron seemed to be a bit... _overzealous_ in her ministrations.  The lump on his head had been healed by a quick tap of her wand, but she had insisted upon trussing him up like a mummy from the nipples up; his skull was wrapped in so many bandages that it was easily three times its normal size, and tended to list to one side if he didn’t keep it propped up on the headboard.  Also, lifting his arms properly was a bit awkward (he had already knocked over several pitchers of water).  The last thing he wanted was her swooping down on him again, clucking and fussing and forcing more potions down his throat.

    At least he wasn’t locked up all alone, like he had been after his mysterious accident over the summer, though at the moment he felt like he might as well be.  With some difficulty, he turned hopefully toward the bed next to him, to check (for the hundredth time) if Remus was awake yet.

    He really did look quite sick; his face was alarmingly pale, with deep purple shadows pooling underneath his eyes.  Bored as he was, Sirius decided against trying to wake him. Restlessly, he shuffled through the pile of books and things on the bedside table, looking for something, _anything,_ to capture his interest for a while.

  Peter had made him a get-well-soon card with a surprisingly accurate drawing of the Whomping Willow, which flexed its branches threateningly each time Sirius glanced at it, and James had left him a large pile of Chocolate Frogs.  He was just leaning over to reach for one of these when a sudden commotion at the infirmary door startled him. He overbalanced, and the weight of his massively wrapped head caused him to topple right out of bed.

  He landed on the stone floor with a muffled thump, and lay dazed for a moment, listening.  Madam Pomfrey seemed to be having a bit of a breakdown, squawking about proper visiting hours, lethal trees in schoolyards and teenage wizards and their bloody _wands._ Sirius got gingerly to his feet, just in time to see James bounding eagerly down the ward, with Peter close behind him.

   ‘Fifteen minutes!’ Professor McGonagall called after them.  ‘And I trust you will remember the infirmary is _not_ a place for hi-jinks and horseplay, Mr Potter!’ though her dubious tone suggested that she did not trust him to remember any such thing.

  ‘Yes, Professor!’ James promised solemnly.

   The professor gave them all a fierce look of warning as she steered Madame Pomfrey gently toward her office, possibly to force-feed her one of her own Calming draughts. As soon as the door closed behind them, James turned to Sirius, grinning.

  ‘You look like a deformed garden gnome,’ he snickered.

  ‘I was thinking a drunk billywig,’ said a faint voice from the next bed.

   They all turned toward Remus in surprise.  

  ‘You’re awake!’ Sirius exclaimed gratefully.  ‘Thank Merlin- I’ve been bored out of my skull!’

  ‘Which isn’t easy to _get_ out of,’ James remarked, smirking, ‘Given that it’s the size of a whole bleeding _planet.’_

   Sirius made a face at James, before remembering that nobody could actually _see_ his face. Instead, he groped clumsily for something to throw at him, but only succeeded in knocking a stack of textbooks and papers off the table.

   ‘So...how’re _you_ feeling?’ James asked Remus.

  ‘I’ve… been better,’ Remus answered hoarsely.  ‘I’ll be all right, though.’ He attempted a nonchalant shrug, but only managed a weak jerk of his left shoulder. He winced.

  ‘Do you need a pain potion?’ James demanded.  ‘Should I get Madam Pom-’

  ‘No!’ Sirius nearly shouted.  ‘Er, best to leave her be, I think,’ he added, in a much lower voice.

  ‘I’ve taken about a hundred potions already,’ Remus assured James, his voice gaining strength.  ‘It’s fine, _I’m_ fine.’ he insisted.  ‘So what have I missed, besides Sirius's giant head?’ he asked them, in an obvious attempt to change the subject.

  It worked.  The three of them began to talk all at once, telling him _nearly_ everything that had occurred in his absence, though Sirius and James conveniently left out their late-night food fight.  As Peter droned on about his chess victory, Sirius leaned over carefully to retrieve his fallen books and things from the floor.  He picked up a water-stained copy of the _Daily Prophet,_ open to his halfhearted attempt at the crossword page, unfolded it, and did a double take.

  On the front page was an extreme close-up of the suspiciously scowling Auror Moody, alongside a photo of a smiling man in lime-green robes.  **_MURDER AT ST MUNGO’S,_ **the headline blared.  How in Merlin’s name had he missed _that?_

   ‘Have you seen this?’ he interrupted Peter,  thrusting the paper toward James.

    James snatched the newspaper eagerly, seeming grateful for the excuse to stop listening to Peter’s painstaking reconstruction, and began to read it aloud.

    ‘ _Late Friday evening, Aurors were called to investigate a gruesome scene at St Mungo’s Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries.  The mutilated body of Healer Ivor Inglebee was discovered by colleague Gwendoline Lodwick._

 _‘I thought he’d just sneaked off for a tea break.’  A visibly distressed Ms. Lodwick tearfully recounted.  ‘He does it all the time; never once offered to bring_ me _a cup!  I was going to let him have it_ this _time, I was.  Of all the rudeness, I mean, really! I stormed into the breakroom… and …. I saw… I saw...all the... Oh, Merlin, the blood!’  At this point, Ms. Lodwick became mostly incoherent, and the interview was hastily concluded.’_

James paused to clear his throat, rather dramatically, before he continued.

_‘Auror Alastor Moody, of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement confirmed -rather irritably -that foul play is likely.  ‘You don’t need a Healer to tell you that Inglebee didn’t die of natural causes,’ Moody growled at reporters, adding that details in this case bear a striking similarity to the as-yet-unsolved August murder of Hortense Habbelthwaite, a merchant in Diagon Alley.  He stated that, while these killers remain at large, no one is safe, and urged the public to remain vigilant.’_

    James paused to turn the page. He read silently for a moment, then shook his head.  ‘That’s all it says about the actual murder,’ he reported.  ‘The rest is just a memorial for the dead bloke.  Inglebee.’ he scanned the article quickly, picking out items of interest.  ‘It says he was in Hufflepuff at Hogwarts, played Keeper on the Quidditch team… muggle-born, left a wife and two kids, blimey…’ he trailed off, folding the newspaper and setting it gingerly on the end of Sirius’s bed.

   They all lapsed into a rather somber silence.

   ‘Right in the middle of St. Mungo’s; that’s mad!’ Sirius said finally.  ‘I thought they’d have loads of security… aren’t hospitals supposed to be safe?’

   ‘It wouldn’t be that hard to get past,’ James pointed out.  ‘As long as you didn’t charge in yelling that you were there to murder someone. All you’d have to do is pretend to be a patient, or even a visitor,’ he theorized.

    At that, Peter gazed around the infirmary as if he expected to see bloodthirsty maniacs lurking under the beds.  James and Sirius rolled their eyes at him, but all four of them jumped when Professor McGonagall stuck her head out of the office and informed them that their time was up.

 

  Madame Pomfrey, looking much calmer now, bustled over with an armload of potions and fresh bandages. The professor briskly herded James and Peter out of the room, and all too soon, Sirius found himself staring restlessly at the stone ceiling once again.

 

 

                                                                                                             * * *

 Sirius was so relieved to finally be out of the Hospital Wing that he hardly even minded being in detention.  James had mostly gotten over his bitterness at missing Quidditch trials (though he had vowed fiercely that he _would_ get on the team next year, or die trying), and even Professor McGonagall seemed more mellow than usual. She’d simply written _I will not violate curfew_ on the blackboard and instructed them to copy it two hundred times. 

  Honestly, Sirius was a bit disappointed in her. After her fiery ‘ _worse consequences than you can possibly imagine,’_   speech, he’d expected something less… pedestrian. This was a witch who could transfigure them both into Horklumps if she wanted to; surely, she could do better than _lines._ Although if it was creative discipline he was after, he supposed he would get more than his fair share when he returned home for the holidays. His mother was probably polishing the Punishment Chair at this very moment. _Be careful what you wish for,_ he thought to himself darkly. 

   He sighed and shifted in his seat. Thinking of Grimmauld Place had reminded him that his brother hadn’t responded to his letter yet. True, it had been less than three days, but it wasn’t like Regulus had anything _better t_ o do; he was probably bored out of his mind. Had their mother forbidden him to write back? He thought it was unlikely (she rarely denied her youngest son anything), but perhaps she’d begun to take her wrath out on him, since Sirius was currently unavailable.

 

   Or maybe, his brother just didn't  _feel_ like writing back. Frowning, he remembered that Regulus hadn't even given him a backward glance on the train platform. Maybe he'd decide that he wouldn't really miss Sirius that much after all, and was becoming happily accustomed to being an only child at last.

   James poked him suddenly in the ribs, startling him enough that he nearly knocked over his inkwell. ‘You finished yet, mate?’ he murmured, one eye on Professor McGonagall. She seemed preoccupied, marking essays so liberally with crimson ink that her desk resembled a crime scene. 

   Sirius glanced down at his parchment, cursing under his breath as he realised he’d forgotten to keep count. ‘You go on,’ he muttered to James, shaking his head.

    James started to argue with him, but was almost instantly shut down by Professor McGonagall, who fixed him with a beady-eyed stare and held her hand out imperiously for his parchment. She peered at it suspiciously, turning it this way and that, as she carefully scrutinized his work for any aberrations. Finally satisfied, she dismissed him curtly.

  ‘Straight to your dormitory, Mr Potter!’ she called after him as he sauntered toward the door. ‘Absolutely no dawdling!’

   ‘Of course not, Professor,’ he said in an injured tone, as if he’d never even thought of such a thing, while winking unsubtly at Sirius.

   She gazed at him sternly for a long moment before returning her attention to the essay in her hand, which was so covered in red that it appeared to be mortally wounded. As soon as she looked away, James mouthed _I’ll wait outside_ , gesturing dramatically toward the corridor.

    Sirius hurriedly scrawled out his last few lines and got to his feet. ‘Er, Professor?’ he asked hesitantly, as he approached her desk, parchment in hand. ‘I was just... wondering if I had gotten any letters?’

   She frowned up at him in surprise.

   ‘Any non-explosive ones, I mean,’ he clarified hastily.

   ‘I’m afraid not, Mr Black,’ she informed him. ‘Were you expecting something?’ she added, distractedly, holding his parchment up to the torchlight and squinting at it as if searching for hidden obscenities.

    ‘It’s... not important,’ he lied. ‘Never mind.’

    Apparently satisfied with his work, she nodded to him briskly and waved him toward the door.

    James was lingering in the corridor as promised, leaning casually against a wall.  ‘You all right, mate?’ James queried, looking closely at Sirius.

    ‘Yeah, just… thinking about something,’ Sirius shrugged. ‘Come on, let’s get back- I’m knackered,’ he said, adding a rather unconvincing fake yawn.

     James didn’t move.  _I don't believe you_ was written all over his face, but there was no malice in it.  It wasn't like his mother's knowing looks, when she seemed to stare coldly into the depths of his guilty, squirming soul. Still, he looked away, hoping James would just let it go.

   For a moment it seemed like he was going to push it, but then he reached into his robes with a sly grin.

   ‘So… want to help me try and chuck these into the Slytherin common room?’ he asked, revealing a fistful of Dungbombs. 

   Sirius cracked an evil smile of his own. Of _course_ he wanted to.

 


End file.
